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.

A harsh beam of white light sliced through the dusk, hitting Bishop's bloodied face.

"Nobody move!" a furious voice shouted.

Vice Principal Alistair Prynne marched around the corner of the shed, holding a heavy black flashlight. He was breathing heavily, his face red with anger.

Bishop reacted instantly.

He stepped sideways, using his broad shoulders to completely block Claire from Prynne's line of sight.

"Get out of here," Bishop whispered harshly over his shoulder. "Run."

Claire didn't move. She knew Prynne had been looking for an excuse to expel Bishop all year. If she ran, Bishop was finished.

Prynne stopped a few feet away. He shined the light directly into Bishop's eyes and smiled a nasty, triumphant smile.

"Fighting again, Dalton?" Prynne sneered. "I caught you red-handed. The school board is going to love this."

Bishop's jaw tightened. He stood up straighter, preparing to take the full blame. "I was just-"

A small, freezing cold hand grabbed the back of Bishop's leather jacket and pulled hard.

Claire stepped out from behind him.

She widened her eyes and let her bottom lip tremble, perfectly faking absolute terror.

Prynne's mouth dropped open. He lowered the flashlight. "Miss Hansen? What are you doing out here?"

"It was an accident, Mr. Prynne," Claire said. She forced a tear to well up in her eye. "Bishop wasn't fighting."

Bishop slowly turned his head. He stared at her, completely stunned.

Claire pointed a shaking finger at the rusted metal pipe lying in the dirt.

"I was trying to take a shortcut," Claire lied smoothly. "I tripped over that pipe. I almost fell into that pile of rusted metal."

She took a deep breath. "Bishop was walking by. He grabbed me to stop me from falling, but he lost his balance and hit his face on the brick wall."

To sell the lie, Claire carefully pulled up the left sleeve of her oversized sweater just enough to expose the inside of her wrist, deliberately keeping the fabric gathered over the telltale needle mark in the center of her vein. She exposed the edge of the massive, dark purple bruise that covered her pale skin. It was the fresh hematoma from the chemotherapy IV she had received hours ago. She silently prayed that Prynne, a privileged administrator who rarely looked closely at anything, wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a medical hematoma and a blunt-force injury.

"He saved me from getting hurt worse," Claire whispered.

Prynne stared at the ugly, dark bruise on the honor student's wrist. He looked at her pale, sickly face. He believed every word.

Prynne frowned and looked at Bishop. "Is this true, Dalton?"

Bishop's eyes were glued to the purple bruise on Claire's wrist.

His chest stopped moving. His eyes darkened with a sudden, intense emotion. He swallowed hard.

"Yeah," Bishop grunted.

Prynne sighed, clearly disappointed he couldn't expel Bishop today. "Fine. But stay out of this area, both of you."

Prynne turned and walked away, his flashlight beam bouncing off the grass.

The second Prynne was out of sight, Bishop moved.

He reached out and grabbed Claire's left wrist. His grip was tight, almost painful.

Claire gasped.

Bishop pulled her arm up, forcing her to look at the dark purple bruise.

"What the hell is this?" Bishop demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "You didn't get this from falling."

Claire's heart hammered against her ribs. She tried to yank her arm back, but his grip was like iron.

"I bruise easily," Claire said, her voice shaking slightly. "Let me go."

Bishop stepped closer. He backed her up until her shoulders hit the chain-link fence. He towered over her.

"Why did you lie for me?" he asked, his eyes searching her face for the truth.

Claire looked up into his dark, angry eyes.

"Because you're a good person," she said softly.

Bishop flinched. He looked at her like she had just slapped him.

A bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped his lips. The anger in his eyes turned into something cold and broken.

He dropped her wrist. He took a large step back, putting distance between them.

"Stay away from me, Claire," Bishop said coldly. "Don't play these games with me."

He turned and walked away into the dark, his shoulders tense and rigid.

Claire watched him go. Her legs finally gave out.

She slid down the chain-link fence and sat in the dirt, gasping for air.

She looked at the needle mark hidden in the center of the bruise. Her secret was safe for another day.