"By the way," said Tiffany, "You said you were going to tell me about Blain. What's the deal with him?"

"Why?" I said, smirking, "You interested in him?"

Tiffany's reaction to this little joking comment told me that, in fact, she was. She shrugged, smiling a little bashfully.

"Oh," I said, "I mean, that's cool."

"Is it?" said Tiffany, "I mean I know I'm not pretty or anything-"

"-hey," I said, cutting her off, "Don't put yourself down like that."

Tiffany rolled her eyes, "You couldn't even tell if I was a girl," she said, "Trust me I know how I look."

"Well it doesn't help if you have a shaved head," I said, "It's very androgynous."

"Yeah," said Tiffany, "I…" she struggled to find the right words, "...I was having an…episode. You know I used to have really nice hair? Everyone gave me compliments. But then after I had Ashton everyone started to look at me like I was a bit of dirt."

I nodded, listening attentively, though a good part of my brain was longing for sleep. I sat upright, trying to remain attentive and focused for Tiffany's sake.

"But why cut your hair?" I said.

For a moment I could see a hint of the maddening frustration Tiffany must have felt. She showed a glimpse of it in her eyes as she thought back to when she had decided to shave her hair so short.

"I just…" she said, jerking a little bit in her seat as if she might be tempted to vomit, "...after having Ashton I just didn't want attention from boys anymore. They all thought I would be easy to sleep with because I was a single mother. The idea of being with anyone else after…Ashton's father…it just made me feel sick. So I shaved my head. After that boys stopped giving me attention, I think most assumed I was mentally ill or something. That didn't bother me so long as they left me alone."

"That sounds really tough," I said, "Didn't you have anyone you could talk to?"

Tiffany shook her head, continued hugging herself for comfort, and sat back. I looked at her fingernails. They had been raw the last time I had seen them but they had since healed up; not perfectly, but enough that they didn't look so freshly chewed. I considered mentioning this but figured Tiffany was already aware of this healing factor after our recovery after using the treadmills.

I took a look around. There were fewer teenagers in the cafeteria now. The day was dragging on and it seemed the rush hour for food was over. I checked my Meter. Still green. So was Tiffany's. There was hardly anyone else near our table so I felt a bit more at ease to speak up.

"Blain's famous," I said, "Sort of."

"Oh yeah?" said Tiffany.

"Yeah," I said, "His Dad's Carl Penniman. Ever heard of him?"

"I don't watch sports," said Tiffany.

"I don't either," I said, "But his Dad's really famous. He was almost the two-time heavyweight champion of the world. I don't know all the ins-and-outs but Blain was in the news a few months ago. He put another boxer, the same weight class and age, in the hospital."

"What, why?" said Tiffany.

"It was a boxing match, for charity I think," I said, "I read an article about it but it was a while back so don't remember all the details. Anyway, Blain's known as the 'Miracle Kid'."

"For sending another boxer to hospital?" said Tiffany.

I smirked, "No, no. Before the fight, I'm talking like two years before, Blain had a degenerative disease of some kind. I can't remember what. Anyway, Blain was slowly dying for two years. Couldn't do anything for himself anymore. Before this he was one of the most promising boxers in the country."

"That's horrible," said Tiffany, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Yeah," I said, "But he made a complete recovery. It seemed like a miracle. So that's why the media called him 'The Miracle Kid'. But then the charity fight happened and he almost killed the other guy he was fighting. Everyone thought cheating was involved because of how uneven the fight was."

"But," said Tiffany, "That's clearly not the case because Blain's special. Like us."

I nodded, "Exactly. Maybe he made that full recovery because of whatever weird thing is making all of us here special. He probably didn't even mean to hurt the other guy so badly."

"Wow, can you imagine?" said Tiffany, "No wonder he knows some good lawyers."

"Maybe I'll try and get to know him a little better when I get back to B-9," I said, "He didn't seem all that friendly before though."

"It might be safer to give him space," said Tiffany, "He might be dangerous."

We took our trays to the pile of dirty trays off in the corner and left the cafeteria. Tiffany offered to show me to the exercise area but I declined. I just wanted to be alone. I really, really needed it. Tiffany joined me on the way to B-9. It was still confusing to me but she made easy enough work navigating the maze of corridors. When we reached B-9 we exchanged a quick hug, then she departed.

"See you later," she said with a smile, and then she left to head to her own living quarters.

I took a deep breath before entering B-9. Inside I saw Blain laying down on the fifth bed in the living quarter. He had his eyes closed and one leg crossed over the over.

There was another boy, Asian, Chinese or similar, who was very thin and had a face riddled with acne.

"Oh hey," he said, his voice was very deep and was particularly upper class sounding; I noticed his teeth were a little on the large side as well, "You must be Burgess?"

"Hey," I said, raising a hand in hello, "Yeah."

I offered him my hand to shake, which he did.

"I'm George," he said, "Blain mentioned you would be coming soon."

Blain remained non-responsive taking his nap on the bed.

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"Hey," said a very small, mouse-like voice from one of the upper bunk-beds.

A boy peered over; it was astonishing to see someone so young have shoulder length long hair around the sides, but also to be balding slightly on top. His hair was very dark brown.

"Hey," I said back.

"Daniel," said the boy.

He raised a shy hand in hello, then after a moment slunk back out of view. I looked around for where my bed might be.

"Which bed isn't taken?" I said.

"Oh, erm, that one," said George. He gestured to the bottom of the nearest bunk beds, the one which Daniel wasn't on the upper bed of.

"Top or bottom?" I said.

"I think you'll be at the bottom," said George, "Tommy has the top one."

I felt a pang of pain in my gut. So it really was true. The twat that slapped me for bumping into him was staying in B-9 too. Well that's just swell, I thought, Just my luck.

"Alright," I said.

I moved over to the bottom bunk, slipped my plimsolls off, and got onto the bed. I shifted around for a minute trying to get comfortable. The bed was stiff, and the pillow provided very little in the way of comfort. I used the cheap blanket and found it gave some respite from the chill that lingered throughout most of the third floor.

Everyone in B-9 seemed to be on the same page when it came to chilling in silence. My head had spun around with all the things which had happened to me in rapid succession recently, but thankfully sleep was near.

Just as I was about to drift off to sleep I heard loud footsteps entering B-9.

"Ay, what are you doing in my bed?" said a familiar, aggressive voice.

I opened my eyes to see Tommy standing at the doorway, his eyes already filled with anger. I had known boys like Tommy in school; the types that could go from a joking mood to rabid as pitbulls at the slightest annoyance. I wanted to tell him to piss off but the thought of getting beaten half to death wasn't something I wanted to entertain.

"Sorry," I mumbled, tiredly, "I'll move."

I got up out of the bed and moved to the little metal ladder.

"Nah," said Tommy, "What do you think you're doing?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"If that's your bed," I said, pointing to the one I just got out of, "This is the only one left."

"Nah," said Tommy, "They're both mine, innit? This side of the room is my space."

I looked Tommy up and down. His slap had hit hard, but not hard enough for me to be afraid of a potential fight with him. My patience was already wafer thin. Once I had been standing outside a classroom and a boy called Dylan, a year younger than me, who had taken a particular dislike to me, had decided that was the time to get in my face.

"Go on," Dylan had said, "Hit me. Go on."

Around that time I was about fourteen years old. I had sized up Dylan and, somewhat for the heck of it, had decided to hit him like he asked. We got into a fight and, surprisingly, I had held my own in the fight, getting some good hits in. I hardly got hurt during the fight at all.

The problem with this however was that Dylan wanted a rematch the next day. On the way to school Dylan, and a friend of his that was two years older, stood at the end of the street blocking my way. This was after the Deputy Headmistress of the school had reprimanded us for fighting and after I had sworn guiltily not to fight Dylan again.

"I'm not going to fight you," I had told Dylan.

He wrestled me to the ground and I just let him. He kicked me and, seeing I wasn't going to retaliate and give him the fight he wanted, he decided against fighting more and walked off with his friend. I had spent much of my teenage years in terror of leaving the house and walking around my town for fear of running into Dylan and his friends. Their parents and siblings had regular run-ins with police for drug dealing and all manner of other criminal activity. It had just been my luck to earn the ire of Dylan and his friends (I did have it coming, however).

Looking at Tommy I wondered which road I might take. Let him walk over me and live in fear of him for however long I was going to stay at the facility? Or fight back? If I won, then maybe he would back off and give me space. Or maybe he would do what Dylan did and go for a rematch.

Tommy looked about my size, maybe an inch taller; though I had no doubt he had seen his fair share of fights and wasn't shy about being violent. I was afraid, but not nearly as much as I might be if I were to go toe-to-toe with Blain, for instance.

"I'll take the top bunk," I said.

Tommy's rage seemed to double. He bit his tongue and squared up to me.

"You what?" He said.

"I said," I began, my voice shaky from fear and the adrenaline newly surging through my body, producing a sweat response, "I'll take the top bunk-"

Before I could finish my sentence Tommy threw a fist at me. It hit me hard in the face and I felt myself stagger back, my shoulder hitting the metal ladder. George scuttled out of the way and Blain sat up on his bed.

Blain will step in, I thought, He won't let Tommy wail on me.

But Blain didn't step in. Tommy threw yet more punches at me. I put my arms up, blocking some of the blows. They were heavy, and they hurt. He hit me in the ribs and then kneed me in the stomach.

"Stop!" George cried out.

The punches kept landing. To my surprise I found I wasn't immediately out for the count. Instead I found despite being repeatedly punched I was able to think quite clearly. Is that the best you've got? I thought to myself.

I dropped my guard and felt Tommy's right fist land hard on my face again. Pain sprang down my neck like a burning hot rod. Another hit. Then another. Right-left, right-left. All this over a bed? I thought. There was something really funny about that. I started to laugh; a pained, wheezy kind of laugh.

The punches kept landing and then they stopped. In the silence that followed I could hear heavy breathing. Tommy was panting, his fists a darker shade from the blood – my blood - that coated them.

I smiled at him and could feel the blood soaked on my teeth.

"Is that it?" I said, and then I spat a wad of blood and saliva onto his plimsolls.

I knew at that moment I could really hurt Tommy if I wanted to. He was looking at me somewhat in disbelief. Don't hurt him, I thought. He doesn't want to fight anymore.

I could see it in his face. I looked down at my fist and clenched it. For some reason I thought of my friend then and wondered what he might do in my shoes. I knew with certainty he wouldn't throw the punch. He would think better of it and would just let the nasty behavior Tommy just exhibited go. He would turn the other cheek.

I really, really wanted to do that. But that's not what I did.

I threw a punch at Tommy, landing a blow hard on his cheek. He staggered back, almost falling over. I moved towards him, closing the distance between us. I grabbed him by the collar of his overalls and started to punch him in the face; again, and again. His nose gave a crunch sound and started to leak blood. It was very satisfying to hear and feel that crunch.

Some kind of giddy enthusiasm took hold of me. I knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself from throwing yet another punch even though the fight was clearly won by me. It didn't seem fair that I couldn't at least match Tommy blow for blow. I started to throw another punch at Tommy only to feel a large hand grip my wrist, bringing the swing to a hard stop.

I looked up and saw Blain standing over me.

"Cool it," he said, "You got him."

I relented. I knew I didn't have to fight anymore. I let out a small chuckle and opened my fist to show I didn't intend to fight anymore. Blain let go.

I turned my attention back to Tommy. He was slumped on the floor. He really looked pathetic for someone who was so aggressive before. Didn't he realise it was me that had done this to him? I couldn't fight to save my life. My punches had always been soft like the ones you throw in dreams. So why was he acting like I had beaten him with a sledgehammer?

I offered Tommy my hand for him to take. This more than anything made Tommy look at me as if I were someone completely different to who he thought I was. He gripped my hand and I helped him to his feet.

I smirked and pointed to the top bunk.

"That's my bunk," I said.

"Alright," said Tommy, grimacing, "It's yours."

I moved past Tommy and out of B-9. I needed to wash up and get some space.