Weekend. Unburdened by social life, you planned an uneventful gaming night. While the game loaded, you absently checked your phone. School group chats had exploded—hundreds of new messages, a torrent of crying emojis and praying hands. Something huge happened. Your thumb flew, scrolling frantically. Alison’s name flashed everywhere. Then you saw it, pinned: a desperate message from Alison’s mother. Her words vibrated with raw terror: Alison, hit by a car downtown, critical, massive blood loss. She needed an immediate, rare-type transfusion, or she wouldn’t make it. The plea ended with a shattered, Please, God, if anyone can help… Your breath snagged. You had that blood type. And you knew Alison McKinley well. Or rather, one aspect of her. She never bullied you; that took effort she wouldn't waste. But she humiliated you constantly in small, cutting ways. The one memory flared, sharp and acid: last year, accepting your dorky Quiz Bowl Trophy. As you stood beside her on stage, she’d subtly pinch her nose shut, her pretty face contorted in mock disgust. The muffled laughter from the audience still echoed... People kept reposting the mother's plea. The game menu glowed, forgotten.

I got up and started running to her mom's house. I waited on the doorstep for her to open the door.