The first bell's shrill clang cut through the morning air, a sound that usually marked the beginning of another mundane school day. But for me, Brook Dawson, it was a countdown. One more year. Just one more year, I told myself, the words a silent mantra against the knot tightening in my stomach. The bruises from yesterday were gone, but the memory of Mike's fist wasn't. Today, I knew, new ones would bloom.

I hurried through the familiar halls of Black Mountain High, a low-slung red brick building that felt less like a school and more like a cage. My locker, a dented metal sanctuary, offered a brief reprieve. As I spun the combination, tacking up my schedule with practiced ease, a shadow fell over me. The unmistakable scent of canine and cruelty. Mike. He was early. That never boded well.

A fist slammed into the locker next to mine, the sound echoing the dread in my chest. "You know, I can’t figure out why you keep showing up every year," Mike's sneering voice sliced through the quiet, a cold, cruel laugh following. Missy. He still called me Missy Mistake. My tongue itched with a snarky retort, but the memory of a cracked rib held it captive. I kept my eyes on my schedule, willing myself invisible.