1642734778_punk-57-pdf

shorts and her rash guard. She must’ve been teaching lessons tonight. Her
hair hangs loose and kinky from air drying, and she clutches the loop of a
black backpack in her hand.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her.
She stands close, her breathing shaky and nervous. “Nothing.”
“Ryen—”
“Shh!” She grabs my wrists and pulls me down, both of us squatting
low as I notice the muffled sound of talking coming from the lab.
“No, I heard a door shut,” one of the guards says.
“This was the only door open,” another says. “You check it out. I’m
going to search the cafeteria.”
I hear her shallow breathing as both of us look to the crack under the
door, seeing the glow of a flashlight. Shit.
I look back to Ryen and suddenly drop my eyes, stopping. There’s
something on her hands.
I shoot my eyes back up to her and then back down, taking one of her
hands and turning it over.
Blue paint.
Or blue…spray paint.
I survey the smudges all over her fingers and palm as realization starts
to hit.
Holy shit.
I look up again, locking eyes with her. Well, well, well…
“You just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Fear flashes in her eyes, and she pulls her hand away, her breaths
sounding like she’s about to cry.
I smirk, and she shoots a glance to the door and then back to me.
“Please don’t say anything,” she begs in a whisper.