Ithadonlybeenfourteendayssihe“youthtransa”they’dsealedinthatXimendingrehearsalroom.

        Andthiseleventh-gradeundercssman—who’dgrownupsick,whowasnowsuffogunderexampressure—hadactuallydrivenherselfthisfaroubbornness.

        “…Areyouanidiot?”

        Eliansworeunderhisbreath.Hisvoicewassolowitbarelyexisted.Itdidn’tsoundlikehewasscoldinguchashewasangryathimself—angryhe’dofferedthosedeviltermsinthefirstpgryhe’dpushedagirltothepointwhereshehada39°C102.2°Ffeverandstilltriedtherselftocramschool.

        Craheardthecursethroughthefog.

        Thefeverhadturhoughtsintosludge,buttheinstinherboheinstinctthathatedrelyingonahatstayedguardedbydefault—rickedawakebyhiswords.Sherealized,slowly,thatshewastooclosetoElian.Closeenoughthatallshecouldbreathewasthes.

        UnderElian’sstartledgaze,Crabracedbothhandsoicseat,bitdownonherpalelowerlip,andpushedherselfup—swaying.

        “Whatareyoudoing?”Elianreachedoutautomaticallytosteadyher,browtight.“Sitdown.It’snotyourtur.”

        “…ThisspotistooclosetotheAt.”Cradidn’tlookathim.Shedodgedhishandandtossedoutthereasoninavoicesoweakandhoarseitwasbarelythere—logicthatsoundedlikeascestudent’sexpnation,awasobviouslyanexcuse.

        Draggihatfeltfilledwithlead,shemovedtothefarthestedgeofthewaitingareaandsatinawindowseat.

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