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.

The fluorescent lights in the main office buzzed like an angry hornet.

Claire stood at the front desk. She handed a pink absence slip to the secretary. Her hands felt incredibly heavy this morning.

"I have an appointment at a private SAT prep center downtown," Claire lied. Her voice was steady, practiced.

"Of course, Claire," the secretary smiled, signing the bottom of the slip. "Good luck with your studying."

Claire took the slip and turned around.

She nearly collided with a solid wall of black leather.

Bishop was walking into the office just as the late bell rang.

He stopped. His dark eyes flicked down to the pink absence slip in her hand. His brow furrowed slightly.

He looked at her pale face, but he didn't say a word. He just stepped aside to let her pass.

By noon, the smell of sterile alcohol and bleach filled Claire's lungs.

She sat in a large leather recliner in the downtown oncology center.

A thick IV needle was taped securely to the back of her left hand. The skin around the needle was already turning a sickening shade of purple.

The cold, toxic chemotherapy fluid dripped slowly into her vein.

A massive wave of nausea hit her instantly. Claire gripped the padded armrests of the chair. Her knuckles turned white.

She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on breathing.

Three hours later, the nurse finally pulled the needle out.

Claire slumped back in the chair. Her entire body felt like it was made of lead.

"You need to eat something, sweetie," the nurse said gently, handing her a small cup of water. "You're getting too thin."

At three o'clock, Claire forced herself onto a city bus to head back to the high school. She had left her AP Literature notebook in her locker, and she needed it to study.

She walked onto the campus just as the parking lot emptied out.

To avoid running into any lingering teachers, she walked around the back of the school, cutting behind the old, abandoned gym equipment shed.

The weeds here were waist-high. No one ever came back here.

Suddenly, the heavy, sickening sound of a fist hitting a jaw echoed through the quiet air.

Claire froze. Her legs were too weak from the chemo to run.

She crept forward and peered through the rusted chain-link fence.

Two massive boys wearing rival high school letterman jackets were circling Bishop.

Bishop's lip was split open. Bright red blood dripped down his chin and stained the collar of his white t-shirt.

But he didn't look scared. He looked like a feral animal. His eyes were wide and filled with a reckless, violent joy.

He lunged forward. He grabbed the heavier boy by the waist and drove him backward.

They slammed into the brick wall of the shed with a bone-rattling crash.

The second boy grabbed a rusted metal pipe from the dirt. He raised it high, stepping up behind Bishop's blind spot.

Claire didn't think.

She bent down, grabbed a heavy rock from the dirt, and threw it with all her remaining strength.

The rock smashed into an empty metal trash can.

The loud, ringing crash startled everyone.

The two rival boys looked toward the fence. Thinking it was a security guard, they dropped the pipe and scrambled over the back wall, running away.

Bishop leaned heavily against the brick wall. He was breathing hard. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

He turned his head. His sharp eyes locked onto Claire standing behind the fence.

Claire gripped the chain-link wire.

The adrenaline left her body. The nausea from the chemo violently returned.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and began to dry heave onto the grass.

Bishop's eyes widened. The violent rage vanished from his face instantly.

He jogged over to the fence, pushed the broken gate open, and stopped right in front of her.

He looked at her pale, sweating face. He thought she was having a panic attack from seeing the blood.

He reached out. His large, rough hand awkwardly but gently patted the middle of her back.

"Are you stupid?" Bishop muttered, his voice thick with frustration and concern. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

Claire leaned against the metal fence to keep from falling. She looked at the blood soaking his shirt.

She forced a weak, trembling smile.

"I got lost," she whispered.