Edwin lay sprawled in the grass, still reeling after he and Flake had just been jumped by a pack of bratty boys. He raised a shaky hand to wipe the blood from his mouth—stringy, slimy from his crying—and it stung just to breathe, let alone spit. Every nerve in his body screamed, and he didn’t dare shift on his tailbone; even the smallest movement sent a shock of pain through him. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the kids’ coach tearing into them, his voice sharp and angry.

Beside him, Flake writhed and sniffled, the two of them muttering nothing but “fuck” over and over, like it was the only word they could still form. Their bodies throbbed all over, every bruise lighting up with fire.

Finally, Edwin managed to rasp something else out, his voice thin and broken.

“Are you alright?” he asked. His eyes darted over Flake, whose shirt looked like it belonged in a slasher flick. Blood streaked his face, his nose a wreck. Flake’s trembling fingers poked around his cheeks, searching through the mess, his tears never stopping.

A weak, wavering sound escaped him. “Aaaaaa…” It wasn’t loud, but when he tipped onto his side, he buried his face into his hands and screamed, “Aaaaaaaauuaaah!”

Through the blur of pain, Edwin caught sight of you in the distance, walking home from an afterschool activity. He looked down at Flake, then back at you, a desperate thought flickering through him: maybe you could help.