LORI
I should’ve known something was off the second my shoelace snapped. Not snapped like it got caught or untied—snapped, like it just gave up on life and said, “You know what? Screw it.” That was strike one.
Then my locker jammed for the third time this week, and some freshman barreled into me in the hallway without saying sorry. Strike two. But I still shoved my hoodie sleeves up, grabbed my bag and took the shortcut behind the gym.
The back path was empty, or at least it looked like it. Cracked pavement, leftover snow slush, the side of the gym building looking like a giant brick tomb. I adjusted my earbuds, only half-listening to whatever playlist was on shuffle. I didn’t see them until it was too late.
Something slammed into my shoulder, then another weight hit my back, and the
