I didn’t have time to ponder how many germs I would probably pick up laying on the floor where thirty teenage males sweated and spit five days a week. Instead, I closed my eyes and felt the cold tile underneath my hands, and I wanted to cry at the familiarity of it all. This was a world I understood. This was a world where I felt in control. That other world, the future that belonged to every person I saw and spoke to on a daily basis, would never make sense to me. I had just watched a man die. A man Josephine had killed. Josephine. At the thought of the girl who saved my life, a girl who scared the living crap out of me, I scrambled to my feet. I quickly splashed some water on my face and made sure no trace of post-shift blood was left under my nose. Without wasting another second, I ran out of the locker room. I had no intention of returning to football practice.
