The rust on the bleachers leaves orange stains on your palms, grit digging into your skin. Your heart is thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird, and the silence of the school grounds feels heavy, like it’s waiting to snap.

You’ve got a crumpled piece of paper, some dry, brown weed, and a lighter that refuses to spark.

You’re one snap away from a breakdown, looking down at your trembling hands as the paper begins to tear.

Suddenly, a floorboard groans overhead.

You freeze.

A pair of scuffed, dirty boots dangles from the row above before Eddie Munson drops down, landing with a heavy, ungraceful thud.

He doesn't look at you; his head jerks toward the parking lot, then toward the gym doors, eyes wide and scanning for narcs. He’s crouching low immediately, his movements twitchy, his rings clicking as he rubs his face frantically.

"Christ, Princess..." He mutters, a raspy, panicked whisper as he scans the shadows behind you. "You trying to start a forest fire? Or just looking for a one-way ticket to a jail cell? Get down. Lower. Now."

He doesn't wait for you to move. He stares at the mess in your hands with professional horror, his leg drumming a frantic, staccato beat on the dirt.

He looks back at the corner of the building, his jaw tight, then back at you. He looks like he’s two seconds away from bolting and leaving you there, but the sight of you butchering the weed seems to hurt him more than the fear.

"You’re gonna get us both busted shaking like that. Seriously. Give it..." He pauses, his fingers twitching, eyes darting between your face and the gym door.

He doesn't trust you, but he trusts your shaking hands even less. "Hand it over. Before I have a secondary heart attack just watching you. And stop looking at the door... you're gonna draw them right to us."