We arrive at the station. It's a large, clean, three story building sitting right next to the street. A lanky hedge hugs the wall surrounding it. Ripley drives past the opening leading to a packed parking lot. I expect him to go in and stop there, but instead, he takes us towards an underground garage. 

We stop at the guard booth. There's a slightly chubby deino sitting inside, who upon seeing Rip, and experiencing his death glare, jumps to his feet and raises the barrier.  

"Welcome back, chief." He leans out of the booth. "Who you bringin' in?"  

"A witness." Ripley replies in a tone that says more than any words could: Shut the fuck up and get back to work. 

The guard gets the hint immediately: he salutes - with a slightly trembling hand and an averted gaze - and retreats back into the meager expanse of his post. Ripley meanmugs him as we drive past, something which makes the poor bastard sit up rigid as a statue.  

I feel bad for the guy. He just asked a question. How could he know that it meant getting between an apex predator and a juicy piece of a prime cut?  

You better watch out during the next audit. Boss' pissed off. But on the other hand, when isn't that fossil of a man angry? He's probably been pissed off at everything from the day he was born. Or hatched. Whatever the case is for dinos. I never paid attention during biology classes. At this moment though, I am the focus of his anger. Being aware of it does not make what's coming any more bearable, quite the fuckin' opposite.   

Let's take things one step at a time though. Baby steps, you learn to walk before you can run, that kind of bullshit. Can't psyche myself up in this way or I'll just end up a trembling mess before we even enter the damn station.

A slow, calming breath. Then another. There we go. And now… we're calm. Real calm. Buddhist monk calm.  

"Get out."  

I start, the fortress of solitude I built myself during the short ride down the garage trembling in its foundations. I, myself, tremble too, but I quickly get a hold on it. I open the door and exit into the brightly lit, kind of dirty garage.  

There are a few squad cars here, sedans, semis, crossovers. There's even a large van. The air is cold, smelling of concrete, fumes, and motor oil. It's silent here, the only sounds being those coming from the street.  

There are a few cops hanging about, talking, leaning on the cars, drinking coffee. All dinos, all mean and scary looking. Me exiting the car gets their immediate attention. Their eyes turning to me turn my body to stone.

Then, mere seconds later, Ripley steps out of the car and whips his head around the parking lot. 

"What the hell are you all standing around for?" He rumbles. "Get back to work!"  

He doesn't shout. But in the silence, the words still sound like a cannon shot. His voice, bouncing off the walls in a cascade of echoes, exacerbates the effect to a bone-chilling degree. It snaps me out of stupor, and the cops out of need for observation and slacking off: I finally feel the blood returning to my legs, while the cops scatter like a pack of scared chickens.  

"Follow me." Ripley slams the car door, which sounds like a gunshot. I jump, my hand on my chest.  

God fucking dammit, I'm shivering again. Flex, flex little man. Keep them trembles contained. Can't let this sonuvabitch know you're afraid of him, because once he finds that out, he will sink his claws in and won't let go.  

He smirks, noticing the impression he made. I follow him through a door, a corridor and a short staircase. Very soon, we're inside.  

The station is as well kept inside as on the outside. I expected sheets of paper and folders on the floor, like in those old buddy cop movies, but nope.

This looks more like an office area of some corporate skyscraper - clean, quiet, neat. Almost sterile actually, unnatural. Something tells me that it's Rip who's behind this state of affairs.  

Hell, they even have a whiteboard on the wall, and shitty motivational posters in the corridors. Hang in there baby! Oh man, that brings back memories.  

I can't believe that Trish's bullshit that one day in the auditorium felt like the end of the world to me. Compared to what happened later, it was nothing. Unimportant highschool drama. Hell, people moved on from it very quickly. But in the end, it helped me and Fang get together. Something I did not fucking deserve, seeing how I treated this gift.   

Thank you, Trish, but please, kindly go fuck yourself.  

The cops move out of our way, backing up and hugging the walls as Ripley passes through. I earn some curious stares myself, but the majority of attention is directed towards the motherfucking chief of police. Attention, peasants! Your lord has returned! Bow down and kneel!  

He leads me around the station, turning in seemingly random directions. We pass through evidence lockers and office areas, hell, at one point we pass by the gun range. The gunshots kick up the dust of bad memories, making me wince and start.  

Blood. Bullet holes. Body bags.  

I clench my hand into a fist to stop it from trembling. Hearing a chuckle from the front of me, I realize what this piece of shit is trying to do. You won't win at this game, motherfucker, I'm not the same kid whom your daughter fell in love with.  

This thought makes me miss a step and stumble. Ripley looks over his shoulder, but I regain my balance without his help, my face hidden by lowering my head. He cannot know, he cannot fucking know that I just blew a golf ball sized hole through my own heart.  

Not the same, huh? - that fucking voice in the back of my head is back. Fuck, where are you, alarms? I could really use you right about now. Drown this fucker out. - What makes you think that? 

I don't want to, but can't help to, start thinking about the things me and Fang did - and didn't do - during our short and stormy relationship. The little things, like making ourselves laugh, discussing movies, music. Walks in the park, all that bullshit.  

Fuck, my eyes are wet. Calm down, Anon. This isn't the hospital. This here building is staffed by the toughest sons of bitches this city has to offer, and if you break down in tears like a little baby, they will crush you. Come on, man the fuck up. Suppress it. There we go. And… we're calm.  

"Um, sir?" I speak up after making sure my voice won't crack.  

He mutters something in response.  

"How is Lucy doing?"  

He snorts.  

"You didn't seem to care how she was doing while you were with her, why did you start now?" He looks over his shoulder with the nastiest fucking leer. 

Oh, I don't fucking know, maybe because she almost killed herself?  

"But, if you need to know, she's in prison right now."  

I blink, my eyes widening. Already? It's been only a week since…  

"Temporary custody." Rip adds, the look of surprise and shock on my face clearly satisfies him. "The trial will begin once we collect the evidence." He gives me a very meaningful, and very mean look.  

"So, am I the missing piece of the puzzle sir?" I ask, feigning confidence. I do a pretty good job at it.  

He snorts and shakes his head.  

"Don't flatter yourself. There were over forty victims in the shooting."  

I start. My stomach starts doing somersaults which would put any Chinese athlete to shame. Nausea rushes up my stomach, up my throat. I can almost taste the bile. Good thing I didn't eat anything today, or I'd throw up on the spot. Forty people… forty fucking people. Raptor Jesus, Fang must have the eye of a sharpshooter. 

"Out of which fifteen have been killed."  

I relax slightly. Oh thank fuck! That's still terrible, but much better than almost half a hundred souls getting sent to hell. Or heaven.  

"What, you wish that there were more?" He stops and turns to me.  

What kind of fucked up question was that? 

Fuck, control yourself. He must have seen the look on your face and probably thinks you're disappointed or something like that. Suppress the fear. Don't let it show. Breathe in, breathe out… Stifle it. Tune it out. There we go.  

"No?" What the fuck is wrong with him? "I just thought that there was…" I swallow the nausea down, hard. "M-much more, sir."  

"Luckily, my daughter," he spits these words out like a piece of bad meat. "Only had one gun, and a revolver at that." He sighs and shakes his head angrily.  

Yeah, and whose gun was it? Couldn't you have locked it in a safe, or a strongbox or something? You dumbass. Truly, the blame is clearly mine on this one. Oh so sue me. Lock me up.  

"Some of the victims suffered from bullet wounds," he turns around and starts walking. "But most were trampled in the panic that started after the shots were fired. Some fell down the stairs, like you." He smirks to himself at that memory.  

I grit my teeth and clench my jaw shut. Short leash. Don't want to antagonize this fucker more than I already did, even if it's all in his head.  

He's not in the right state of mind right now. No shit, Doc Jones. Losing your kid to their sibling does not bode well for one's mental health.  

"We are still procuring statements from the witnesses and the survivors." Ripley continues, in a slightly higher spirit.  

The guy should have gotten leave or something. Why the hell is he working while fucked up like this? To keep up the appearances? No one would blame him if he'd step down for a bit, not me especially. I understand that he lost his son and wants justice, but this turning this shit over and over in your head isn't healthy.   

I say nothing. I'm not a psychologist, and besides, I have a hunch that he'd crack my skull if I'd dare to question him.  

"You are one of the more important witnesses. You and that one girl, what was her name…" he mumbles to himself, trying to remember. "Ah, yes, Stella."  

I almost fall flat onto my face. Stella?  

You hard-boiled-egg-hatched, meteor dodging, flightless, oversized chicken son of a bitch, what do you want with her? She went through enough. So I hope you will adjust your modus fucking operandi for that or I swear, you'll regret waking up that morning.   

I let these thoughts simmer and seethe inside my brain, only giving vent to my anger through angry, barely audible mumbling. Our combined footsteps are enough to drown it out completely.  

The rest of the way towards… wherever he's been taking me to goes by in tense silence. Corridor after corridor, office area after office area. I feel like we're walking in circles. I spot a couple humans, but other than the whole of the force consists of dinos.  

At last, we arrive somewhere.  

Ripley stops suddenly. He opens an inconspicuously looking door and gestures at me to get inside. I do as he wants.  

I find myself in a small, dark room. It's bare, save for a table, three chairs and a desk lamp. An interrogation room, straight out of bad police drama. Lovely. I wonder when the good cop, bad cop routine shall begin.  

I sit myself in the singular chair at one end of the room. The door slams shut. I twitch and look at it. He's really enjoying himself, fucking prick. I can almost see his self satisfied, shit eating grin as he stands there with his hand on the doorknob. What is he waiting for? Backup?  

I'm completely alone for a time. I don't like it. It leaves me alone with my thoughts, and even though I had a couple of days to digest and process what happened at school, just thinking about it is enough to make my hands curl into fists and my throat clench. God dammit.  

I check my phone. Two hours since we left the hospital. We've been circling the station for at least half an hour. No wonder my legs are so tired. Fuck you, Ripley. If you want to break me, you'll have to do better than that.  

The door opens a couple minutes later. Ripley walks in, along with the spinosaurus I saw back on the school's roof. Ah, so we are doing the good cop bad cop routine. Or rather, from how the fresh arrival looks at me, this may be more of a bad cop bad cop skit. Ripley must have been priming him for this ever since the shooting.  

Fine, let's fucking do this. It takes two to tango. I'm rested and ready to dance. 

"Sergeant Glen Webb." Ripley nods at the spinosaurus. "Me and him will be collecting your statement."  

I nod.  

Collecting my statement? And not even a bottle of water for me? That's nothing like the cop dramas I watched.  

They both sit down, the chairs creaking under their weights. Glenn sets a large mug of coffee down on the table, alongside a sturdy looking laptop. Rip meanwhile only stares at me, with a nasty fucking leer. I reciprocate the look, staring right back into his eyes. No frowning, no scowling. Just looking back at him.  

After a short duel of wills, his grimace contorts into a self-assured smirk. He leans over to Glenn and murmurs something which makes the spino chuckle and glance at me with some amusement. It's a vicious type of amusement, the kind you see on a gangsta-type fella after he scares someone shitless.  

I endure the stare, the smirks and the chuckles. I just sit there, my hands on the table, waiting for them to start asking. They take their sweet time with everything though.  

Glenn takes a sip of coffee. Ripley stretches against the back of his chair, his arms folded behind his head. If he could shoot lasers from his eyes, he would have already burned a hole through me, the chair, and the wall behind me. But I endure. I have to and want to.  

He was scaring the shit out of me the whole time we knew each other, and I just about fucking had it. 

But this is his turf, and he has me exactly where he wants me. I, of course, want to leave. My instincts are screaming at me to get up, sprint to the door and run, run, run. The blaring of the alarms has been at its peak for the past ten minutes. But I keep still. Like a damn statue. I'm not fucking afraid of you. Bring it on.  

We'll see how you fare when they finally start asking questions. - the familiar voice speaks up in my head. - Let's hope you don't pussy out, like when she started pouring her heart out to you on that roof.  

Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. 

I clench my jaw, just enough to keep the mumble in. Don't show any aggression. This old piece of dino shit will gladly seize any opportunity to put me in the can.  

Glenn takes another sip of coffee. He and Rip exchange another mumbled remark, snicker like a pair of jocks and look at me. The spino opens the laptop. Fucking finally.  

Oh wait, he's not doing anything. So we are playing the waiting game then, huh? Fine by me. I have time. A lot of time. Truckloads of it.  

I roll my shoulders, to get rid of the stiffness.  

Sudden buzzing of Rip's phone makes me jump. The commissioner smirks, nods at Glenn and leaves the room. From behind the door, I can hear his voice, booming in the corridor like a wardrum.  

He's talking to his wife. They're talking about Fang I think. Fang… fuck.  

I clench my fist, grinding my teeth. Glenn watches me carefully.  

Was it also planned? Seems real fucking convenient, have his wife call him at this moment, and choose to speak about something - or rather, someone - that will be sure to lower my guard.  

I swallow slowly. I look at Glenn. He looks at me, then at the computer. He starts tapping on the keyboard, then stops. Then, he looks up at me and takes a sip from his mug.  

"You know…"  

The suddenness of his voice makes me start, despite all the efforts towards keeping still. He snorts.  

"On the roof, I thought that you're just a victim of circumstance." He looks back at the computer screen and fiddles with the touchpad for a moment. "But, I've heard about you. You're a nasty piece of work, huh?"  

So it was planned. This call. Rip planned to have me alone with Glenn, so one of his cronies would soften me up for him. Tenderize me, like a slab of fucking meat. No way, jose. I didn't go through literal hell and save your daughter to break under some psychological manipulation bullshit.  

"You've heard about me from commissioner Aaron, sir?" I ask, surprising even myself with how calm my voice is.  

He's at loss, only for a split second. But that look of surprise on his face, even if almost immediately masked with a cocky smile, was enough for me to know that I struck the right chord. Bullseye.  

"Maybe, maybe not. I spoke with Lucy's friends, Reed and Trish." He takes another sip of the bean juice, leering at me over the edge of the cup.  

"Yeah?" I roll my shoulders again.  

"They had interesting things to say about you." He puts the cup down. "Especially Trish."  

Of course that bitch of a salad gobbler would have interesting things to say about me. I do wonder what Reed had to say though. Maybe I should call him, apologize for digging into him so hard. That prom concert was a fucking disaster. Maybe he simply wanted to forget about it.  

"Things like?" I ask, looking at Glenn as he fiddles with the laptop.  

"Things about how you treated Lucy. How you treated them. About your influence over Lucy." Webb shrugs, returning the look. "Very interesting things."  

I hold back a bitter laugh. Of course. Trish would rather die than admit that she had anything to do with Fang's actions, damn bitch. She'd gladly shift the blame onto me, then go back to being all buddy-buddy with her, her hands clean. 

Reed though? He's been checked out half the time. I doubt he even remembered what happened at the prom, let alone for the past six months. But who knows, maybe I'm judging him too harshly. There may be a dangerously sharp guy behind all that drug-mist.  

I definitely need to call him. I need to know what happened right before the concert. I fucking refuse to believe that Fang didn't gut the music room in search of a fresh string. That's not her style. Girl's a fighter, not a quitter.  

Unlike me.  

"Can you tell me some of those things?" I ask.  

He shrugs.  

"Sure." He takes another sip of his coffee. "Since Rip is taking his sweet time, I don't see why not?" He looks at the door, behind which Ripley's still talking to his wife. 

I don't think he's doing it out of the kindness of his heart. This must have be calculated too.  

He starts talking. It's a weird, confusing mess of a story. He compresses the last six months into a long winded ramble, probably digested and re-digested from Trish's statements, with some of Reed's thoughts thrown in.  

It would confuse me, if I didn't live through these six months myself. But it helps me gain some fresh perspectives on these two.  

Maybe I did treat Trish way too harshly. From what Glenn tells me, as incoherent and broken up it is, it seems that she was simply terrified of losing Fang to me - a loser from bumfuck nowhere, who swooped in and stole her friend away. Fucking hell, Trish, you damn spiked prune, why didn't you just fucking talk to me, instead of being so confrontational.  

As if you weren't the same towards her. - the voice scolds me. - Remember what happened at Spears' office? He gave you the opportunity to talk it over with her on a silver platter, and what did you do? Take a big, smelly shit on it. 

Fuck, you may be right, conscience. While some details are wrong - I didn't go out of my way to butt heads, unlike her - you may be right overall. Someone had to be an adult there.  

That bridge is long gone though. Torched, torn down and napalm bombed.

Here's hoping that at least Reed will still want to talk to me. I did rip into him quite hard. Complete radio silence ever since that call at the hospital. Maybe that bridge is just singed up a little and salvageable. 

I have to think it all over. But now's not the time to be ponderous, as here comes Ripley Motherfucking Aaron, the brave commissioner and caring father, with a very expectant look on his face.  

Let's fucking go.   

"Sorry for taking so long, Glenn." He nods at the spinosaurus. "You know how long winded Samantha is."  

"No problem, chief." The spino nods in return. "Me and the skinnie were just having a little chat while we waited."  

I let some of the emotions kicked up by my musings slip and on my face. He took my relief for disappointment earlier, didn't he?  

Time to double cross him into certainty of his scheme being effective. Make him think that I'm just some scared kid, ready for whatever he wants to do with me. There is some truth to that - I am scared, fucking terrified - but I will not let him string me up and dance me around like a puppet.  

Naomi did that, and where did that lead to?  

"Sir, are you ready to hear my statement?" I ask, drumming my fingers on the table. "I don't know what you'd want me to tell you though."  

He frowns a little and drums on the table with his fingers. He stares at me, as if I had just said the fuckest bologna shit he ever heard. I continue regardless, keeping my voice steady somehow.  

"You said you were collecting statements from others, and I can't tell much of what happened, other than the aftermath-"  

"Tell me about Lucy." Ripley leans forward.  

I look at Glenn. Now he's at attention. Ready to note down anything. I'm sure his presence ain't needed. He's but a support for Ripley's bullying. 

I've seen all the shitty cop dramas. There's probably a whole crew behind that pane of glass on the wall, listening to everything we say. And there are cameras in the room. At least I won't be getting the ass whooping Rip wants to deliver. 

Cameras can be turned off though. Malfunction. Many such cases with body cams on cops, why not here? And he is the commissioner here. And he hates me.  

Better still be careful. Don't show fear, but neither try to be all cocky and bravado-like.  

"What do you want to know?"  

"Let's start from the beginning." Rip sits up straight, his fist on the table. Fuck, it's as big as a bread loaf. "When and where did you meet her? How did you two get to know each other?"  

Motherfucker. What, will he ask if we fucked too? Oh god, I hope not. Either way, better not leave the grim reaper hanging.  

If he goes too hard on you, call me. 

Doc Jones, I'll hold you up to those words if he smacks me across the room.  

"I first met her on my first day at school…"    

 

***

    

"...and then I left the roof, while she went to the nurse's office." I clear my throat.  

I've been talking for the past three hours, I think. The ambient noise of the keyboard clicking softly under Glenn's surprisingly nimble fingers helped me get into the rhythm. It was like a metronome for words. I spilled all the beans. Answered every question Ripley had. After all, there was nothing for me to hide. 

"Can I…" I swallow. "Can I, uh, get some water please?"  

My throat is sore and parched. My voice is slightly hoarse. I give Ripley an asking look, to which he responds with an annoyed sigh and a nod at Glenn. The spino leaves and soon returns with a plastic cup.  

"Thank you." I take it and down it in a few gulps. "Now, where was I?" I clear my throat. "Ah, yes, after I got off the roof, I…"  

Ripley raises his hand, interrupting me. He rubs the bridge of his snout with the palm of his hand and stretches out with a loud grunt.  

"That's enough for today." He looks at Glenn. "Have someone drive him back to his apartment. Don't want him talking to the press before the trial starts." 

I look down at the cup. Huh. This wasn't that bad so far. And I'll be getting a lift and protection. He isn't doing it out of kindness, but still, it's a nice gesture. I rub my eyes, red and sore from not blinking. I look up at Ripley, who nods at the door with his hand.  

"Take him to the lobby. Have a car ready in fifteen minutes." He says to Glenn. "I want him back in his apartment as soon as possible."  

"On it, chief." Glenn shuts the laptop and gets up. "Come on, skinnie. Let's go." 

We go. I, still clutching the cup in my hand, look over my shoulder at Ripley, left alone at the interrogation table. He's rubbing his face with his hand, murmuring Raptor Jesus knows what. He's tensed up and trembling.  

Right as I round the corner, I see tears starting to dribble down his cheek.

I trudge down the corridor, more dejected and beaten than at any moment during the interrogation. Poor Naser. Poor fucking Ripley.  

The wait at the reception is short. I'm soon in the backseat of another squad car, but this time I'm too preoccupied with my own thoughts to lament over myself being there. I watch the streets, buildings and people speed by, thinking.  

I think of Trish and of Reed. I wonder how they're dealing with all this. Can't be worse than myself. I wonder when the school will be reopened. Not until the trial, probably. They'll probably relocate us to different schools for now.  Fifteen people died. I wonder how many Fang killed and how many were trampled to death in the panic. Twenty five were injured. Fuck, when I made my way up to the roof, it seemed a lot more. As if half the school was slaughtered.

I shake and rub my head with a dejected sigh. I just want to go back to my shitty apartment, lie down on my shitty bed, curl up and stay there.  

This need makes me despise the sight of a tiny group of journalists, milling about the apartment building I live in. There's even a DNN van parked on the curb. I clench my fists and leer at those fucking vultures all the way down the street.  

The driver notices my leer in the back mirror. He mutters something to the other. We drive past the group. I look at him, but he seems to be ignoring me. He turns into a back alley two blocks later.

We then slowly make our way back, driving through the back alleys. Not far from my place, he stops the car and we get out.  

"Which building do you live in?" The driver looks around. He's tense. His hand lingers around the holster on his hip. I don't blame him.  

I point at the building right in front of us.  

"Alright, follow me."  

I go with him, leaving the other in the car. Not that I had much of a choice. We slip into the building by the back exit. There are no journalists inside, thank Raptor Jesus. A short climb up the stairs later, and we're at my door.  

"Thank you." I mutter, fishing inside my pocket for the key.  

He quickly murmurs something in reply, and soon, the only sign of his presence is the sound of footsteps, descending down the stairwell. I sigh softly, finally get the key out of my pocket and open the door.  

I enter, shut the door and stand for a moment, holding onto the doorknob, my forehead resting on the cold wood. I am tired, completely fucking spent. It's late afternoon, and I haven't eaten anything since morning. Fuck it, I don't feel like preparing anything, even if I'm literally starving.   

The thought of food makes my stomach rumble eagerly. I smack my belly with my vacant hand. No. No food today. Only sleep. I'll treat myself tomorrow, but now… 

I push myself away from the door and spin in place to face my apartment.  

The pillow's still torn. Feathers everywhere. There's a hole in the cupboard, punched through by Fang during her fit of blind rage. I wince and cower, gripping my forehead as her mindless screaming echoes in my head. And those claws… I feared she'd fucking gut me that night. Thank fuck she didn't.  

Speaking of fucking… 

I freeze. Oh. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What will Ripley do if he finds out what I did with Fang the night before the shooting? He will fucking murder me. I would be a walking dead man. My days would be numbered. He would rip me apart.   

My vision blurring, breath accelerating, my heart pounding on my ribs like a knocker on a castle door, I stumble towards the bed. I trip and hit my knee on the frame on my way down. The pain, sweet sweet pain snaps me out of hysteria. I sit down, massaging my knee, breathing slowly through clenched teeth. 

First of all, don't panic. You will lie. Fang wouldn't tell Ripley about this, she knows what he would do to me. Ol' Rip does not need to know. What significance does it have?  

Second of all, he can't murder you. You're a vital witness. He will need you for the trial.  

But what about after the trial? Think, you dumbfuck, think!  

My old man's words echo in my head, sounding no longer like a sentence, but like a gospel of salvation.  

After the lease is done, it's either college or service. I don't care which.  

I'll just call my old man, tell him what happened, and that I want to end the lease immediately. Ripley won't be able to reach me in the army. He will be happy to get rid of me, and I will be happy to get out of his way. A win-win situation.  

What about Fang? - the voice in my head demands. - You're just gonna leave her with this mess? 

For a split second, burning shame colors my cheeks red. How can I be this selfish? Me me me, all I've been thinking about ever since the shooting was me. Me and how to get away from it all. Maybe I should…

"You should what?" I mutter angrily to myself, gripping my good knee. "Go to jail for her? They have the security footage. The evidence is as clear as a fucking summer day."  

I can't stay here. That's for certain. Besides, don't they give leave to soldiers? I'll just visit her in prison.  

There. A perfect plan. Everything will be okay, buster. Now go to sleep. You've earned it.  

Just as I lay my head onto the gutted pillow and close my eyes, my phone starts buzzing.

My eyes shoot open, and I just lay there on my side, pondering whether to pick up or ignore it. Maybe it's Reed. I should really talk to him. I don't want to burn every single bridge I built here.  

With a heavy sigh, I reach into my pocket.     

 

Incoming call 

Rosa

    

Oh yeah, I gave Rosa my number at the hospital. I wonder what she wants.  

"H-" I clear my throat. "Hello?"  

"Hello, chico." She sounds worried. "How are you doing?"  

"I just got back from the police station."  

Her gasp makes my chest clench. Goddammit, calm the fuck down. I'm not dead. Not yet at least.  

"Did Fang's dad-"  

"No." I interrupt her. "He only had some questions about…" I hesitate. "About what happened."  

She snorts into the receiver, making my ear tingle.  

"Stella told me that you left in the morning, An-on." I can hear the body of her phone creaking under the pressure of her mighty grip. "Si ese hijo de puta te hizo algo, yo…"  

I shake my head, silencing her in a flurry of assurances. It takes a minute or two to calm her down. After that's achieved, she's silent for a time. I can hear her breathing quite deeply though.  

"Oh!" She suddenly exclaims. "Have you eaten anything?"  

Lie. 

"No." I mumble out before I can bite my tongue.  

You fucking idiot. Why bother her with your petty bullshit? She has Stella to worry about. Don't add to the pile.  

Fuck, she's angry again.  

"¡Estúpido, te morirás de hambre!" She says, words pouring out like a machine gun fire. "I'll bring you something!" 

See? Should have lied. Now she's worried about you. Good job.  

"Rosa, there is no need-"  

"¡Sin discusión!" She shouts out, cutting me off. "Where do you live?"  

I try to protest further, but the orange tyrant somehow scoops out all the info she needs from me. Before I know what's what, I'm sitting with a silent phone pressed to my ear, while my stomach plays a drum solo in anticipation of culinary delights.  

"You always had a way with women." I grumble, tossing the phone onto the desk.   

It slides and bumps against Ray-mba's enclosure. I sigh, shake my head, roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The cheap alarm clock ticks the time away. Tick, tick, tick.  

Fuck my life.  

After who knows how long, I hear footsteps in the corridor. Two people. Probably some of my neighbors. They approach my door and stop. Then I hear knocking.  

"An-on?"  

I stir. So she did come? Man, this woman is a treasure. If not for what I still feel for my sweet sweet girl, I'd find her care extremely endearing.  

"Yeah, I'm here." I chuckle grimly. "Still alive, somehow."  

She huffs and taps at the door again.  

"Don't say such things! Open the door, I brought you some food."  

May as well. She did come here, to Skin Row, only because I am a bit hungry.  

I get off the bed and open the door. The first thing I see is a large silver pot. As my eyes travel up, I see Rosa, and further up, I see her father. They're both looking at me attentively, with Rosa's eyes carrying a gleam of concern. She looks behind me, at the mess of an apartment, then back at me. The gleam intensifies.  

Why does she care so much? I'm just some nobody from bumfuck nowhere.  

"Are you okay, Anon?" She asks as I step aside to let them both in.  

"As okay as I can be, given the circumstances." I sit on the bed, rubbing my temple with my thumb. "Just put it wherever. It doesn't matter."  

She frowns, shakes her head at me with a soft grimace and marches off into the closet of a kitchen. She comes back empty handed, and after whispering with her father, she sits on the bed next to me. He leaves and stands behind the door. 

"Why do you care so much?" I look at her.  

"I care about all my friends, chico." She smiles at me warmly. "That includes you." She pats my cheek and looks around with a mix of disapproval and worry. "What a mess. Who did this?"  

I put my face in my hands and sigh hard.

"Fang." 

I feel her shift on the mattress.  

"After the prom…" I keep talking, my hands still closed around my face. "We had a fight after the prom. I was drunk. I said things I shouldn't have."  

She puts her hand on my shoulder. I shiver. Is this the part where I cry on her shoulder again?  

"Remember what I said at the hospital? What I asked you?" I shake my head. "I said things that made her…" I hesitate. "Mad."  

Mad? Her mind was completely fucking broken. She almost murdered me. When she kicked me, I swear I felt my spine shift a little.  

"You were at the prom, you saw what happened." I rub my face in my palms. "And I told her stupid bullshit, about how none of it mattered and similar crap. I fed her bullshit when she needed me."  

I grit my teeth and smack my thighs hard, which makes her jump. She never lets go of my shoulder though.  

"And here, in this apartment, as she was broken down and crying, fucking…" I take a stiff, sharp breath. "Fucking weeping, I told her that maybe there is something wrong with her, and that she needs to be fixed." I look at Rosa, my face rigid in self hatred. "Some boyfriend, huh?" 

She sighs, puts down her head, shakes it and looks back at me. There's a sad smile on her face. And a seemingly never-ending supply of compassion in her eyes.  

"People say stupid things when they are drunk, Anon." She pats my shoulder. "It's all water under the bridge now." She lets go of me. "Come, come, don't worry yourself, at least not on an empty stomach." She gets up.  

She's soon back with a steaming bowl of… something. It's red, thick, has beans and corn in it and smells absolutely amazing. My stomach, upon my nose registering the enticing smells, starts drumming a very impressive drum solo.  

Rosa smirks and sets the bowl on the desk.  

"No need you said?" She gestures at the desk. "Eat."  

I get up. She immediately notices my limp as I go over to the desk.  

"I hit my knee when I was lying down." I respond to her accusatory glare.  

"Niño estúpido." She swats my shoulder. "Eat. I'll clean up this mess."  

I look at her over my shoulder, beet red.  

"Rosa, there's no need-"  

She cuts me off with a snort.   

"Like there was no need for me to bring you food? Eat. You're no use with a hurt knee anyway." She glares at me, the strength of her gaze making me relent and turn towards the bowl of spicy goodness.  

Better not incur the wrath of the slipper.  

I eat while she shuffles about the apartment. I devour… whatever she brought me. Refills come in rapid succession, Raptor Jesus knows when. Her dad peeks in a few times. Seeing her cleaning up surprises him, but he only raises an eyebrow.  

Finally, Rosa's done. She takes away the bowl and pats me on the back.  

"Now go to bed." She goes back into the kitchen, from where she soon emerges with the familiar pot. 

Absolute goddamn treasure.  

"Thank you, Rosa." I smile at her as she opens the door.  

"Ni lo menciones." She walks out into the dingy corridor.  

I will mention it as many damn times as I want. You deserve it. 

"Don't forget to lock the door." She looks around unsurely. "This place looks… dangerous."  

Of course it's dangerous. It's fucking Skin Row. 

"Will do." I nod at her. "Give Stella my regards."  

She nods back.  

"Will do. Bye, An-on!"  

I lean out of the doorway and lead her away with my eyes. What did I do to deserve such a good friend? I shake my head, quickly lock the door and hop into the bed.  

I dream of Fang. Of simpler, happier days.

 

***

    

I spend the next day at the station, where I continue to relay the story of my relationship to Ripley and Glenn. I don't see why they'd need me to tell them this, but I don't protest. I must have shown it on my face at one point, as halfway through the interrogation, Ripley interrupts me. 

"You're probably wondering why we're asking you about your private affairs."  

"It is strange." I say. "I thought that you'd only be collecting my statement about what happened at school."  

Ripley puts his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together. He sits with his jaw resting on top for a moment before turning to me.  

"We… know that. Do you know how many times Lucy shot Naomi?"  

I start. How the hell would I know? Does he think she told me? 

My stomach starts rolling. Color leaves my face and I stifle a gag. Three images flash before my eyes.  

Naomi, crumpled up in a bloody pile. Naomi, in a body bag. Her mom, screaming.  

Oh god, oh god. 

"Lucy shot Naomi four times." He puts his hands on the table. "Four. Damn. Times." He accentuates each word with the tap of his finger on the cheap wood. "Naomi died after the first, but something drove Lucy to keep shooting."  

I lean away as he leans in. He's staring at me, very hard and very intently.  

"And I have a hunch that it's that bald head of yours which holds the key to that mystery." He runs his hand down his face. "We just need to find it amongst the garbage." He taps the table top with his palm a few times.  

"Naomi died after the first shot?" I mumble out before biting my tongue.  

Ripley immediately jumps onto the opportunity. Of course he does. Fuck you, old man. 

"She was shot in the head." He says, watching me squirm and shift with sick satisfaction spreading over his face. "Through the eye," he points at his own eye. "At an angle." He turns his head and taps the back of it. "The exit wound is somewhere here." 

I cover my mouth, trying my best not to gag… fuck, not to vomit. What the fuck is wrong with him? He needs to go on leave immediately. Is he going to tell me how Naser died as well? How about every single fucking person who was killed that day?  

Hell, even Glenn is giving him a weird look.  

"Uh, chief?..." He glances at me, then back at him. "Don't you think this is a bit too much?"  

"Shut the hell up, Webb." Ripley glowers at him. "If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it."  

"I'm just saying, that sharing these details with him is completely unnece-"  

"Did I stutter?" Ripley growls. "You take notes, I ask questions. That's how it works. Now shut up and do your job."  

For the first time since we met, Glenn gives me a compassionate look. It's a very short one, barely a glance which he immediately turns back towards the computer screen, but it's good to know that not all cops here are completely heartless.  

The rest of the interrogation for today goes by without any other traumatic descriptors. I still stumble out like a drunkard after it's over, not daring to look at Ripley, Glenn, or any of the police officers. I don't even know when I'm back at my place, calling doc Jones.  

He picks up quickly.  

"Hello?"  

"Hey doc, it's me, Anon." I say tiredly.  

There's a moment of silence. When he speaks up, his voice is much more tense.  

"Is everything alright?" He sounds concerned.

Fuck, will you people stop worrying?  

"It's about the commissioner." I rub the back of my head.  

Another moment of silence. Well, not a complete silence: he mutters fucking copper before speaking out loud.  

"What did he do? Did he hit you? Do you need medical assistance?" 

I shake my head, assuring him that I'm fine. He doesn't sound convinced, so I continue. I tell him about what Ripley said about Naomi, and described his little demonstration - as delicately and in as few words as possible.  

Another silence.  

"Motherf-" he cuts himself off. He's pissed. "Mister Aaron knows what you went through. This conduct is absolutely unacceptable." He pauses to collect his thoughts. "His higher-ups need to know about this."  

Ripley has a boss? I thought that he is the law in this city.  

"There are people above him. Do you think he'd be let loose on Volcaldera, free to do as he pleases?"  

Damn mumbling.  

"From how he acted towards me ever since we first met?" I shrug. "Abso-fucking-lutely, doc." I rub my forehead with my fingers. "I just needed someone to talk about this. Sorry for bothering you, doctor. I know that you're hella busy."  

He snorts.  

"I gave you my number for situations like this." He pauses for a moment. "Do you want me to inform his superiors?"  

I shake my head. No, no, fucking no. Rip would tear me limb from limb if he was taken off the case. He needs closure, and I won't be the one to take it away from him.  

"No." I say. "But, there's something…" 

"Yes?"  

"I'll swing by the hospital. Can you prescribe me some pills?" I rub my jaw. Man, I need to shave. "Something for the nerves. Valium or something." 

Another silence.  

"Yes, of course. I'll have the prescription ready for you. Stay safe, Anon."  

I thank him and end the call. Then I get up and make my way down, through the back door and down the back alley. The tiny pocket knife is cold comfort with the knowledge that there may be some crackhead, waiting to jump me on my way.  

I think I'll buy a gun. Something small and deadly. 

I get to the hospital by bus and meet up with Doc Jones. He is worried, and seeing me does not improve his mood. Fuck. I forgot to shave. And I must be pretty pale, since I hadn't left my apartment since I came back - not counting the excursions to the police station.  

"Doc, I'm fine." I shake my head as he looks very intently at me. "I'll just grab the slip and be on my way." I reach for the prescription on the desk.  

He stops me by grabbing the piece of paper and pulling it away.   

"Your friend, Stella, she is still here." He gives me a prolonged look. "I think she'd appreciate your visit." He gives it to me. "And from the look on your face, I can tell that the feeling's mutual."  

I stuff the prescription into my pocket. Why not? Stella could use some consolation. She needs it more than I do. She almost died that day. I got lucky and escaped with a few bruises.  

"Will do." I give the doc a nod and a thumbs up. "Thank you, doctor."  

I leave his office and ask the receptionist where Stella's room is. I arrive there shortly after and enter.  

Rosa's with her. They're both surprised, but happy to see me. As I sit down next to her, Rosa drowns me in an avalanche of questions about my well being, questions which are too numerous to answer, so I just nod along until she's finished. Then, I turn to Stella, who's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor with a sad look on her face.  

"Poor Fang…" she sighs.  

I start. Shiver. Start to sweat. I look at Rosa. She's not in the least surprised by Stella's interjection.  

"We were talking about them before you came in, chico." She explains, nodding at the TV.  

I look up. It's tuned to the news channel. DNN to be exact. The strip at the bottom says: School shooter expected to face life sentence.  

The TV's muted, so I can't hear the voiceover. The footage from the studio is replaced by a clip from the security camera, showing Fang firing frantically at the students fleeing down the corridor. Even this short snippet is enough to make my stomach turn.  

"Why-" I swallow down the nausea. "Why the hell are you watching this?" I turn to Rosa, then to Stella. "Didn't you two go through enough? Why relive this?"  

Rosa clicks the remote. The TV shuts off.  

"We want to know what happens to Fang." Stella looks at me. "They're our friend."  

Friend? Yeah, you could say that. She didn't shoot her, like she shot Naomi and Naser.  

A mental image of Naomi, staring down the barrel of Fang's revolver flashes before my eyes. Eyes wide, mouth open, body rigid. Bang! Naomi falls. Bang! Bang! Bang! Each shot rings in my head like tolling of a funeral bell. 

Oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god.  

"Anon, are you okay?"   

I realize that I've grabbed my head and that I am rocking back and forth like a lunatic. I cut that shit out immediately and look back at them both. I give them a weak, apologetic smile.  

"I'm sorry, it's just, that at the station-" Great, here I go, trauma dumping on someone again. Bite your tongue for once, fucking retard. "Sorry. Forget about it."  

They both start. And start staring. Great. This was meant to be a pleasant visit to raise Stella's spirits. Fucking beautiful. Why do they keep looking at me like that? What are they expecting me to say? Hey, Fang's dad told me how Naomi's fucking brains were blown out! Pretty neat, huh? 

"I don't want to talk about it." I look at one, then at the other. "Forget I mentioned it. I'm sorry."  

They do, or at least try to. We do try to talk after that. But the conversations are awkward and never last more than a few words. I get worried looks from both of them the whole time. Congratu-fucking-lations, Anon, you fucking doofus.   

I leave the two to themselves half an hour later. God dammit I feel like shit. Sorry, Doc, you were wrong this time. Good thing I got this prescription. Gonna sleep like a little baby.  

As I exit the hospital, a thought pops into my head. Something I've been wanting to do for a little while. I take my phone out and go to contacts.     

 

Calling 

Reed

    

Pick up. Come on dude, don't leave me hanging.  

The signal cuts off, replaced by muffled sounds of psychedelic rock. Other than that, there's silence. Tense, expectant silence.  

Alright, let's do it. 

"Hey, Reed."  

After a long moment of excruciating silence, I hear him sigh. I clench my vacant hand, attempting to stamp out the anguish crushing my chest like an iron ring.  

"Hey, Anon." He sounds completely sober and lucid. "What's up?"  

"I, uh… I'm doing fine." Bang! Bang! Bang! "And you?"  

He's silent for a long time. Or it feels that way. It may have been a couple seconds.  

"I'm…" he sighs again. "I'm whatever. Why are you calling me?"  

I work my mouth for a moment, turning what I should tell him over and over in my head. He hadn't hung up on me yet, so that's a start. Maybe this bridge isn't one big pile of ashes yet.  

"I wanted to apologize for what I said last time we talked." I take a short, calm breath. "I shouldn't have ripped into you so hard, man. I'm sorry."  

More silence. Seems like I'm running into this problem a lot today.  

"It's cool." He mutters something under his breath. "I wanted to call you anyways, just…" he pauses. "I had to think about what you've said."  

I nod and murmur in agreement.  

"I want to talk to you about something." Reed continues. "Let's meet up. On the beach."  

"Uh, sure." I rub my cheek. "When?"  

"In like, half an hour." Reed pauses again. "Don't fucking stand me up. This is important."  

I nod a few times. Did he just swear? 

"I won't, I promise."  

"Good." He hangs up.  

I look at my phone for a moment before stuffing it into my pocket.  

The relief that comes from the fact that Reed still wanted to talk to me is immeasurable, but marred by uncertainty as to what he wanted to talk to me about . But, I'll cross this bridge when I get there.  

I arrive at the beach. Reed is already there, sitting alone at a picnic table. He waves me over, and I sit down opposite him. He gives me a long, intent stare which lasts a bit longer than I'm comfortable with, before speaking up.  

"Hey Anon."  

"H-hey, Reed." I smile weakly. "So, what did you want to talk about?"  

He looks down, then back at me. He rubs the back of his head, drums on the table with his fingers, then looks down again. Finally, he exhales slowly and looks up at me.  

"It's about Trish. There's something she did that you should know."