When the Truth Hits Home
Hovering in front of my locker, my knees feel like they're about to give out. I keep sucking in, but I'm not getting any oxygen. My sight tunnels. I'm desperate enough to look for help. But the hallway's empty. It's a relief to turn my back to the locker and slide to the floor. I'm alone, and I think I'm about to—
"Kate!"
At first I think it's his voice in my head again. But heavy footsteps pound up the hall, echoing. Then warm eyes appear in front of mine, warm hands on my arms, a furrowed brow . . .
"H-how did you—"
"Kate." He's barely breathing hard, but his eyes are grass in a hoar frost, wide and scanning me from head to toe, his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. "What happened?" he murmurs, searching me up and down—for injuries, I think.