He looks over at you, eyes wide, mouth dropping open, his face almost as white as his shirt. He’s surprised, too. There’s not a lot of broken glass, though, just some tiny slivers around his feet and one big piece busted into sharp peaks like a spiking line graph, the blood washing down it like rain on a windshield. He doesn’t say anything clever or funny, doesn’t quote Shakespeare, he just screams. But no one can hear him, and it would be too late if they could. You’re thinking, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, this shouldn’t be happening. And now things are only going to get worse. You’re just a kid. It can’t be your fault. But then there’s all that blood. So, maybe it is your fault, but that doesn’t make things any better. And it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Think. When did it go wrong? The break-in? No, before that. The party? That was part of it, but that wasn’t when it started. Zack? Of course, yeah, it would be easy to say it was Zack.
