The high school hallway smelled like floor wax, stale cafeteria pizza, and cheap body spray—a combination that always made my stomach turn. I held my history textbook against my chest like a shield, eyes down, counting the tiles on the floor. One, two, three. Breathe. Just get to third period. I knew the routine better than anyone. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t react. Don’t exist. But I heard them behind me. The heavy, rhythmic thud of Timberland boots… and the sharp click-whir of my own left leg. “Yo, Robo-Cop! You squeaking today?” Tyler. Of course it was Tyler. The Creekwood...
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