The walk back to the apartment was a blur of dark, sulfur-scented valley alleys. The mist had rolled in from the river, thick and damp, clinging to my skin like a cold shroud. When I finally let myself through the front door of our rooms, the silence was absolute. My parents’ bedroom door was shut, the faint, rhythmic sound of my father's heavy breathing the only sign of life.
I didn't go to bed. I couldn't.
I sat down at the small laminate kitchen table under the flickering light of a single bulb. My backpack was sitting on the chair, its heavy canvas straps looking like iron weights. I unzipped it, pulling out the massive, five-hundred-page syllabus for Advanced Macroeconomics Mr. Harrison had distributed.
Tomorrow wasn't an exam—it was day two. But at Garrison Heights, day two meant
