And so he waited by himself, leaning against a stone wall away from the other kids
as they squealed and laughed and looked at their phones as if nothing in the world was wrong,
as if nothing in the whole entire universe could ever happen to them.
Then he saw them. Harry and Sully and Anton, walking towards him diagonally across the yard,
Harry’s eyes on him, unsmiling but alert, his cronies looking happy in anticipation.
Here they came. Conor felt weak with relief. He’d only slept long enough that morning to have the nightmare,
as if things hadn’t been bad enough. There he’d been again, with the horror and the falling,
with the terrible, terrible thing that happened at the end. He’d woken up screaming.
To a day that hardly seemed any better.
When he’d finally worked up the courage to go downstairs, his father was there in his grandma’s kitchen, making breakfast.
His grandma was nowhere to be seen. “Scrambled?” his father asked, holding up the pan where the eggs were cooking.
Conor nodded, even though he wasn’t remotely hungry, and sat in a chair at the table.
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