Wednesday. The air in Tacony Charter feels heavier than usual, the kind of weight that makes it hard to breathe. The fire department has set up camp, double-checking every sprinkler, fire extinguisher, and alarm system in the building. Bright yellow jackets fill the hallways, accompanied by ladders, toolboxes, and a palpable sense of unease.

I spot Fury Forge among them, and try not to stare at her face, and then not at her arms, either. She's in full gear, a sleek black and red suit with faint scorch marks along the edges, a huge backpack full of, I'm sure, the most advanced firefighting gadgets and gizmos the world has ever seen before or since. She's talking to one of the fire marshals, her tone calm but authoritative.

I feel... Dull relief. Like a sense that I'm being taken seriously, finally, if only by proxy.

Nobody's tied any of this to me. Not yet. The tension in the school isn't about me--it's about the fires, the arsonist, the sketch on the news. Aaron's sketch. I haven't slept much since it aired, but it looks like he has. The fires have stopped, and he's laying low, waiting. Watching. I can feel it.

The whole morning feels claustrophobic, the usual din of student chatter muted by nervous glances and hushed whispers. Teachers try to act normal, but I catch the way they're glancing at the fire marshals out of the corners of their eyes. It's like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for the next spark.

I'm not waiting. I'm hunting.

Lunch rolls around, and I don't waste time. Melissa Marshall--earnest, oblivious Melissa--is sitting with her usual group near the back of the cafeteria. They're laughing about something, but I can't hear what over the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears. I grab my tray, steel myself, and make a beeline for her table.

She looks up when I sit down, her smile faltering for half a second before settling into something polite but wary. "Hey, Sam," she says. "What's up?"

I set my tray down and lean forward, keeping my voice as calm as I can manage. "Why did you put a letter in my locker yesterday?"

Melissa blinks, tilting her head slightly. "Oh," she says, like I've asked her where she bought her shoes. "John from my math class asked me to."

I stare at her, waiting for more. She blinks again, like she doesn't understand why I'm still staring. "He was like, 'Oh, you know Sam Small, right?' And I was like, 'Yeah, I'm in classes with her.' And he said some guy paid him forty bucks to put it in your locker, but he didn't know which one was yours. So I was like, 'Well, if you give me ten of that, I'll do it.'" She shrugs, taking a bite of her sandwich. "Why? It was a love note, right?"

I don't answer. I'm too busy trying to process the sheer ridiculousness of what she's just said. Ten dollars. She did it for ten dollars.

Melissa keeps chewing, waiting for me to say something. When I don't, she swallows and adds, "Was it not a love note?"

"No," I say finally, my voice flat. "It was not a love note."

Her face scrunches up in confusion. "Oh. Sorry?"

I can't tell if she's lying, but she doesn't seem nervous. She doesn't seem anything. Just earnest, like Heckerman said. Earnest and completely, bafflingly oblivious. If she had a cut on her, or if she was on her period, I could read her heartbeat, and see if this conversation was stirring anything. But somehow, even without my bloodsense, I can tell she is being totally honest.

No, Sam, don't be mean. She's being polite and friendly, she has no way of knowing, and you're sure she's perfectly adequate in terms of education and literacy. You need to calm down. You're lashing out in your head.

Thanks, the small version of my therapist that lives inside my brainstem. I needed that.

I take a slow breath, trying to steady myself. "Okay," I say, forcing the words out. "You tell John from your math class, or whatever, that I need to talk to him. Today."

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Melissa nods, like I've asked her to pass a note in class. "Sure thing. He's probably in the library right now."

"Thanks," I mutter, standing up. "Enjoy your sandwich."

I walk away before she can respond, my thoughts racing. It's not that I feel betrayed--how could I? Melissa clearly doesn't understand what she's done. No, what I feel is... offended. Like the whole situation is some kind of cosmic joke at my expense.

Forty dollars. Just to fuck with me.

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I'm walking to class when a kid I've never seen before steps into my path, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, a slacker's hoodie and patchy facial hair that is not doing him any favors. Maybe in another life he could've been a linebacker, but right now anything interesting about him is buried under a gentle weed perfume. "Uh, hey," he says, his voice low. "Melissa said you wanted to talk to me?"

I stop, narrowing my eyes. "You're John?"

"Yeah," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "Uh, look, if it's about the envelope thing, I don't really know much about it. Some dude gave it to my dealer, who gave it to me. Said to put it in your locker, that's all."

I blink. "Wait. Your dealer?"

John shrugs. "Yeah, you know. Just this guy I buy weed from sometimes. He was like, 'Hey, some dude paid me to get this envelope into Tacony Charter. Some girl's locker. I know some of you guys go there.' And I guess I was the lucky winner. I think he thought it was some trap girl thing."

"You're telling me," I say slowly, my voice tight, "that some random guy handed an envelope to your weed dealer, who handed it to you, and you just... went with it?"

He nods, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "He gave me forty bucks. What was I supposed to do, say no? Do you know how much weed forty bucks can buy?"

I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting. "Are you kidding me? You didn't think that was at all suspicious?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why would I? It's not like he asked me to blow up the school or something. It was just an envelope."

"You didn't ask what was in the envelope?" My voice is rising, and I have to force myself to take a step back, to unclench my fists. "You didn't think, 'Hey, maybe this is sketchy as hell and I shouldn't get involved?'"

John looks at me like I'm the one who's being unreasonable. "I mean, it's not like I opened it or anything. The guy who gave it to my dealer said it was just a message for someone. I figured it was, like, a love letter or something."

"A love letter?" I repeat, my voice cracking slightly with disbelief. Why does everyone think it's a fucking love letter? Why does nobody think it might've been a bomb, or anthrax?

The more reasonable part of my brain tries pulling the brakes. People generally do not set bombs for individual, unremarkable teenage girls. Sam, you are an exception, not the rule, and there is no way for this poor kid to know that. Nobody is anthraxing Samantha Small, Unremarkable Athlete.

He shrugs again. "I don't know, man. I was just like, well, what's the harm? It's not like they can fit a bomb into a letter, you know?"

I'm so mad I can't even think straight. My nails are digging into my palms, and there's a sharp, biting heat rising in my chest. I open my mouth to yell at him, but the sheer absurdity of it all hits me like a brick. My anger collapses into something bitter and tired, and I let out a humorless laugh instead.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, more to myself than to him. "Do you know the guy your dealer got the envelope from? Do you have any idea who he might've been?"

"Nope," John says cheerfully, like this conversation is just a mild inconvenience in his otherwise perfect day. "Didn't see him. My dealer just said it was some dude. Didn't really ask for details."

I throw my hands up in frustration. "You know there's a sketch of him on the news, right? He's the arsonist they're looking for. You just played middleman for a serial arsonist."

John's expression falters, his mouth opening slightly. "Oh. Uh... I don't really watch the news. My parents don't let me."

I can't do this. I can't talk to this kid for one more second without my head exploding. "Okay, man," I say, my voice dripping with exasperation. "Go to class. Forget I exist. I. Alright. Just go about your day. Enjoy your forty bucks."

"Cool," he says, clearly relieved. He shuffles off, disappearing into the crowd of students like a cockroach under a spotlight.

I watch him go, shaking my head. The worst part isn't even how ridiculous this all is. The worst part is how little it matters. Aaron didn't have to show up in person. He didn't have to put himself at risk. He spent forty bucks, passed an envelope through three lazy hands, and managed to rattle me so hard I can barely think straight.

Sent me on a wild goose chase to find the world's least interesting patsies, almost made me start crying in the hallway... what, for a lark? He didn't even have to show up. Was it just to show me that he could hurt me from this far away?

It's so petty it's almost funny. Almost.

But I'm done fucking around. If he wanted to scare me, this stupid dipshit stunt backfired, because I've gone from just being scared to being scared and angry.

I stare at the clock, watching it tick by, knowing that as soon as I'm done school, I'm going to go grab Fury Forge by the ear, steal one of her axes, and go hunting for coyotes.