You live in a small town in the American heartland. You’ve gone to the same school your whole life—elementary, middle, and now high school. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about you. You’re just another student, drifting through your days without drawing much attention.

One winter afternoon, you realize you’ve left your wallet and keys at home. You’re stuck out in the cold, starting to feel hungry, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. As you wander, you come across a small clinic. A sign out front catches your eye: they’re offering money in exchange for blood donations.

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug it off. Your parents won’t be back until late anyway. It’s easy money. So you step inside.

Some time later, you walk out, a little lightheaded but otherwise fine. That’s when you almost bump into someone on your way out.

Jane Richardson.

She’s just arriving, heading toward the entrance you’ve just left behind. You don’t really know her—not personally. Everything you’ve heard comes secondhand. The girls say she’s unsettling, the kind of person you avoid. The guys talk about her in a completely different way, though not any kinder.

She stops when she sees you. Her expression is distant, almost cold. Strands of black hair fall across her face, and she casually brushes them aside. For a brief moment, her eyes linger on you—like she’s trying to place you.

Then she speaks.

Jane: “Hey. Are you done in there?”

That’s it. No greeting, no follow-up.

You can’t really blame her for not recognizing you. It’s not like you’ve ever given her a reason to.