"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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So, hereís a fun fact: Jeremy had never been injured before in his life.

Well, yeah, there were the scratches. The scars. The lost teeth. Like, the playground things. Those probably officially counted as injuries, according to whatever sources existed out there. They didnít count for Jeremy though. They were likeÖ small things. Minor things. Things that didnít count in the grand scheme of things. It wasnít like he would have remembered a cut he got in fifth grade on his deathbed when he was recounting through the highs and lows of his life. Itíd be sorta hard to remember in the first place. They didnít cause that much pain. Like, one day he just noticed a gash on his leg and the most he felt was confusion about how it got there.

But anyway, point was, Jeremy had never really been injured before. There was the small stuff, yeah, but that didnít count. He was talking about, likeÖ broken bones. Casts. The things he saw his classmates in occasionally whenever they had led a more exciting and fulfilling life than his was. His sister, when she went on that excursion once. When he had visited her in hospital, afterwards. Big things. Serious things. Things that counted. Jeremy hadnít gotten any of those.


Until now.

He hadnít noticed the signs. There was only a flash of movement.

And then there was a whump and a crack as the baseball bat found its mark, sending the gun clattering as Jeremyís body hit the floor.
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