The sharp scratch of Mr. York's chalk against the blackboard snapped Claire's attention away from the dull ache in her abdomen.

"Open your textbooks to page forty-two," Mr. York instructed the class. "We are starting Shakespeare's sonnets."

Claire reached down and pulled the zipper of her backpack open.

She sifted through her notebooks and folders. Her hands suddenly froze.

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

She remembered last night. The stomach pain had flared up so violently she had collapsed at her desk. She had blacked out from the agony before she could pack her bag for today.

The heavy literature textbook was still sitting on her bedroom floor.

Cold sweat instantly broke out across Claire's forehead.

She could not get a detention on her first day. She could not draw that kind of negative attention to herself.

Mr. York stepped away from the chalkboard. He began walking down the narrow aisles, checking the students' desks.

His heavy footsteps grew closer.

Claire kept her head down. Her fingers nervously twisted the loose yarn at the hem of her oversized sweater.

The fabric stretched tight across her knuckles.

Beside her, Bishop had his eyes closed. The frantic rustling of her clothes and her rapid breathing made his dark eyebrows pull together.

He opened his eyes. He glanced at her completely empty desk. He looked down at her white, shaking fingers gripping her sweater.

He understood exactly what was happening.

Mr. York stopped directly in front of Claire's desk.

"Miss Hansen," Mr. York said, his voice stern. "Where is your textbook?"

The entire class turned around in their seats. Some students smirked. Others watched with mild pity.

Claire opened her mouth. Her throat felt completely dry.

"I..." she started, trying to formulate a believable lie.

A heavy, thick textbook suddenly slid across the surface of the desk.

It stopped right in front of Claire's folded hands.

"It's hers," a deep, rough voice said.

Claire snapped her head to the side.

Bishop was leaning back in his chair. His long legs were stretched out under the desk. His face was completely blank.

Mr. York's face darkened with immediate anger. He turned his glare onto Bishop.

"And where is your textbook, Mr. Dalton?" York demanded.

Bishop shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. He tilted his chin up in a blatant display of disrespect.

"Forgot it," Bishop said flatly.

The classroom went dead silent.

Jax Adler sucked in a loud breath through his teeth.

Mr. York's face turned a deep shade of red. He pulled a pink slip of paper from his shirt pocket and slammed it onto Bishop's desk.

"Principal's office. Right now," York snapped, his voice shaking with fury. "I am not dealing with your insolence today."

Bishop didn't even look at the slip. He stood up.

He kicked his chair back so hard it slammed into the desk behind him.

He grabbed his empty black backpack from the floor. He didn't look at Mr. York, and he didn't look at Claire.

He walked straight down the aisle and out the door.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang.

Claire stared at the textbook sitting in front of her. The cover was still slightly warm from his hands. Her chest felt incredibly tight.

When the bell finally rang, Claire packed her bag quickly.

She caught up to Willow in the hallway. She casually asked where the lockers for the juniors with the last name Dalton were located.

During the lunch hour, the hallways were packed with students heading to the cafeteria.

Claire slipped away from the crowd. She walked down the quiet north corridor until she found a locker covered in faded black marker tags.

She looked left and right. The hallway was empty.

She reached into the deep pocket of her sweater and pulled out a small, shiny object.

It was a strawberry hard candy wrapped in clear plastic.

It was the candy she sucked on to kill the disgusting chemical taste of her chemotherapy. It was the only thing of value she had on her.

She pulled a yellow sticky note from her bag. She clicked her pen and wrote two words in neat, careful cursive.

Thank you.

Claire folded the sticky note around the candy. She pushed it through the narrow ventilation slits at the top of the metal locker door.

She heard it drop softly onto whatever was inside.

The tight, painful knot in her stomach seemed to loosen just a fraction. A small, genuine smile touched her lips.

She turned and walked back toward the cafeteria, her thin frame disappearing into the sea of students.

Around the corner, leaning against the cinderblock wall, Bishop stood perfectly still. He had just walked out of the principal's office after enduring a twenty-minute lecture, deciding to skip the rest of the period and wander the empty halls instead.

His dark eyes tracked Claire's retreating back until she was gone.

The final bell of the day rang, sending a massive wave of students flooding into the hallways.

Bishop walked to his locker. He spun the combination dial with quick, practiced movements.

He yanked the metal door open.

Sitting right on top of his spare black hoodie was a bright pink strawberry candy and a folded yellow sticky note.

He picked up the note.

He stared at the neat, perfect handwriting. Thank you.

An image of Claire's pale, terrified face from this morning flashed in his mind.

The hard, angry line of his mouth twitched. It was the closest thing to a smile he had felt in months.

He unwrapped the candy and tossed it into his mouth.

The cheap, artificial strawberry flavor exploded on his tongue. He hated sweets. But he didn't spit it out.

He folded the yellow sticky note and shoved it deep into his leather wallet.

On the other side of the school, Claire stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

She uncapped a tube of tinted lip balm and rubbed it heavily over her lips. Her natural color was fading faster today.

She walked out the front doors of the school.

Willow jogged up next to her. "Hey, a bunch of us are going to get milkshakes. You want to come?"

"I can't," Claire lied smoothly. "I have a lot of reading to catch up on at home."

She needed to go home and lie down before the pain became unbearable.

To avoid the slow-moving crowds on the main sidewalk, Claire turned down the narrow alleyway that ran behind the school's auto shop.

The alley was dark. It smelled strongly of rotting garbage and stale cigarette smoke.

Claire kept her head down, walking fast.

Suddenly, the loud, wet sound of a fist hitting flesh echoed off the brick walls.

Someone whimpered.

Claire froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She ducked behind a massive green dumpster and peeked around the rusted metal edge.

Three older boys wearing dirty denim jackets had a skinny kid with thick glasses pinned against the brick wall.

They were digging through the kid's pockets.

The leader, a guy named Spike O'Malley, pulled his fist back. He aimed right for the kid's face.

Claire's breath caught in her throat. Her shaking hand reached into her pocket, her fingers blindly searching for her phone to call the police.

Before she could pull it out, a tall, broad figure stepped into the mouth of the alley. It was well-known among the student body that the secluded spot behind the auto shop was Bishop's designated area to smoke between classes, but the three older boys had clearly forgotten. He blocked out the afternoon sun, casting a long, imposing shadow over the concrete.

Bishop stood there. He had an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were dead and cold.

Spike looked up and sneered. "Get lost, Dalton. Mind your own business."

Bishop didn't say a word.

He closed the distance in three long strides. He swung his leg up and kicked Spike squarely in the chest.

Spike flew backward. His back slammed violently into the metal dumpster.

The sheer, brutal speed of the violence made the other two boys drop the skinny kid instantly. They backed away, their eyes wide with fear.

Bishop grabbed Spike by the collar of his jacket. He hauled him up until Spike's toes barely touched the ground.

"If I see you on this block again," Bishop said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble, "I'll break your jaw."

He shoved Spike away.

The three boys scrambled over each other and ran out the opposite end of the alley.

Bishop looked down. He picked up the skinny kid's glasses from the dirt.

He shoved them roughly into the kid's chest. "Get out of here."

The kid stammered a thank you and sprinted away.

Claire stood frozen behind her dumpster. She pressed both hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound.

Everyone said Bishop was a monster. But he just saved that boy.

Bishop turned around. His dark eyes locked exactly on the edge of the dumpster where Claire was hiding.

He spit the unlit cigarette onto the concrete.

"You can come out," Bishop said coldly. "Unless you like the smell of trash."

Claire's face burned with embarrassment. She stepped out into the open.

Her fingers nervously gripped the straps of her backpack. She didn't know what to say.

Bishop walked slowly toward her. He stopped when he was standing right in front of her.

He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

He looked down at her. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume mixed with the lingering smell of the strawberry candy he had eaten.

He didn't explain the fight. He didn't justify the violence.

"Don't walk down this alley," Bishop said flatly. "It's not safe."

He stepped around her and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the shadows.

The cafeteria smelled like stale grease and loud teenage hormones the next day.

Claire held her plastic tray, scanning the crowded room for an empty table.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned around. It was the skinny boy with the glasses from the alleyway yesterday.

He nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. He held out a tall, ice-cold can of Monster energy drink.

"Can you give this to Bishop?" the boy stuttered. "I know you sit next to him. I'm too scared to go near him."

Claire looked at the cold condensation dripping down the black and green can.

She remembered the brutal way Bishop had kicked that bully into the dumpster. She smiled softly.

"I'll give it to him," Claire said.

She walked back to the AP Literature classroom.

Bishop was already there. He was slumped over his desk, fast asleep. Heavy metal music leaked loudly from his earbuds.

Claire sat down quietly. She placed the cold can of Monster on the top corner of his desk.

A single drop of ice water slid down the aluminum can and hit the wooden desk with a quiet tap.

Bishop's eyes snapped open.

He pulled one earbud out. He glared at the bright green can like it was a threat.

"The boy from the alley yesterday," Claire whispered, leaning slightly toward him. "He wanted to say thank you."

Bishop let out a harsh scoff. "Tell him to mind his own business."

But he didn't push the can away.

He reached out with one large hand. He hooked his finger under the metal tab and cracked it open.

He tilted his head back and drank. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Watching him swallow, a sudden tightness gripped her chest. It was the raw, untamed energy of someone who had never known what it meant to be sick-a vibrant, forceful vitality that made her own fragile existence feel even more brittle.

Claire watched him, a secret feeling of warmth spreading in her chest. He was actually very easy to figure out.

The warmth did not last.

At two o'clock in the morning, the Hansen house was completely silent.

Claire lay curled in a tight ball on her massive bed.

Her face was the color of ash. Thick beads of cold sweat soaked her hairline and dripped down her neck.

It felt like a jagged, rusty knife was being twisted violently inside her stomach. The chemotherapy drugs were burning through her veins, destroying her from the inside out.

She bit down on her thick blanket. She refused to scream.

If she screamed, Brenda, the live-in nanny sleeping downstairs, would wake up.

Claire stared at the digital clock on her nightstand. The red numbers blurred as tears filled her eyes.

Every second felt like an hour of torture.

She reached her shaking hand out from under the covers. She dragged her fingers across the wooden nightstand, searching for her heavy prescription pain pills.

Her fingers spasmed.

She knocked the orange plastic bottle over. It hit the floor.

Dozens of small white pills scattered across the hardwood floor.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek, soaking into her pillow.

She forced her weak arms to push her body up. She dragged herself to the edge of the bed and slid down onto the freezing floor.

She fell to her knees. Her hands shook violently as she picked up two white pills from the dust.

She put them in her mouth and swallowed them dry. They scratched her throat on the way down.

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She sat on the cold floor, rocking slightly, waiting for the drugs to numb her brain.

Her phone lit up on the bed above her.

It was a text from her cousin, Gillian. How is the new school?

Claire stared at the bright screen. Her vision was swimming.

She reached up and typed with a trembling thumb. Everything is great. I made a new friend.

She hit send. The phone slipped from her fingers and hit the carpet.

She closed her eyes. She thought of Bishop drinking that energy drink. She thought of the raw, powerful strength in his muscles.

It was a kind of life she would never have again.

When the sun finally rose, the pain faded into a dull, exhausting ache.

Claire stood in front of her bathroom mirror. She stared at her hollow cheeks.

She picked up her makeup sponge and began to paint the perfect, healthy student back onto her face.