The 3:05 PM bell was not a release. It was a starting pistol for a race Bruce never felt ready for. The roar of the Oaktown High hallways was, thankfully, muted. He'd made a choice that morning, a choice that still made his stomach feel hollow and cold.
He was wearing the amulet.
He had woken from the nightmare of the giant, pulsing heart, his chest seared, the small, dark piece of wood lying on his floor like a dead thing. He had left it there, and the roar had returned. It was worse than before. It was a screaming, starving, internal static that had made his teeth ache and his vision swim. The hunger from the dream was still there, a coppery taste in his mouth.
He had lasted three hours.
Just before dawn, his hands shaking, he had picked it up. It was cool to the touch, as if the night's terrible heat had never happened. He'd retied the leather cord and slipped it back over his head.
The silence that fell in his mind was immediate, and it was not a relief. It was a trade. He'd swapped the screaming chaos for this new, cold, empty clarity. It was the silence of a padded room, the silence of the moments before a terrible accident. He felt like a spectator in his own body. He felt, he thought with a grim, cold logic, dangerous.
"Are you... okay today?"
Ruth's voice pulled him from his own head. They were walking down the main steps, into the weak, grey light of the late afternoon. The "perfect" day from the picnic was gone, replaced by a low, oppressive ceiling of clouds that promised a cold, mean rain.
He forced a smile. "Yeah. Just... tired. Bad night."
"You're wearing it again, aren't you?" she asked, her voice low, for his ears only. She nodded at the collar of his shirt, where the leather cord disappeared.
He stopped, surprised she'd noticed. He'd tucked it deep.
"You... you get this look when you're wearing it," she explained, her brow furrowing with a worry that made him feel like a fraud. "You're... clear. But in a weird way. Like you're here, but also... really, really far away. Like you're looking at the world through a window."
"It's... it's better than the noise, Ruth," he said, his voice quiet. He started walking again, pulling her gently by the hand toward the student parking lot. "The... the hum. It's... it's just better."
"I don't like it," she said, but she let him lead. "It doesn't seem like you."
That's the point, he thought, the cold, clear part of his mind observing. That's the whole point.
They were halfway across the parking lot, heading for the gap between the teacher's section and the student's, a shortcut to the path that led to their neighborhood. It was mostly empty, save for a few clusters of cars.
"Well, well. Look at this."
Bruce's hand, holding Ruth's, tightened. He didn't have to look. He felt the voice. The amulet did nothing to stop the pure, mundane dread that was Dickson.
He stopped. Ruth stopped with him.
Dickson was leaning against a primer-grey '79 Camaro, a car that was always in some state of disassembly. And he wasn't alone. This was the part that made Bruce's new, cold clarity sharpen. He wasn't alone. Three of his friends, all in identical letterman jackets, were with him. One was sitting on the hood. The other two were standing, blocking the path.
It wasn't an encounter. It was an ambush.
"What's the matter, Ghost?" Dickson said, pushing himself off the car. He was a big guy, but he moved with a quick, mean energy. He was enjoying this. "Your witchy grandma cast a spell on you? You looked at me funny in the hall yesterday."
Bruce remembered it. The cold, clear stare that had made Dickson falter. He'd known, even then, that it had been a mistake. You don't show a dog like Dickson a new trick.
"Leave it alone, Dickson," Ruth said, her voice sharp, her grip on Bruce's hand tightening. She was, as always, fearless. And it was, as always, the most terrifying thing about her.
"Ruth, don't," Bruce whispered, his voice flat. The cold, clear silence in his head was absolute. He was a spectator. He was watching this happen. He could feel the amulet, a cool, dead weight on his chest. "Let's just... let's just go. We'll walk around."
He tugged her hand, trying to turn back.
"I don't think so," one of the friends, a guy named Miller, said, stepping forward. He was smaller than Dickson, but wiry and fast.
Dickson smiled. It was a slow, wet, ugly smile. He had an audience. He needed to re-establish the rules.
"I'm tired of you, freak," Dickson said, walking right up to them, forcing them to stop. He was close enough now that Bruce could smell the cheap cinnamon gum he was chewing. "I'm tired of your creepy-ass house. I'm tired of your creepy-ass grandma. I'm tired of you walking around here like you're... like you're nothing."
"He's not bothering you," Ruth said, her voice shaking now, but with anger, not fear. "You're pathetic, Dickson. You're a cliché. Why don't you just go home and... and lift something?"
Bruce winced. Ruth, no. Please, no.
Dickson's eyes, which had been fixed on Bruce, swiveled to her. His smile widened. "Aww, look at that. The little girlfriend's got a mouth." He took a step closer, getting into her space, forcing her to look up at him. "What do you even see in this mute? Huh? Is he, like, a charity case? You feel sorry for him?"
"Shut up, Dickson," Ruth said, but her voice was smaller now. He was too close.
"Dickson," Bruce said.
It was the first time he'd spoken. His voice was quiet. It was flat. It was cold.
It sounded, even to his own ears, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Dickson turned, surprised. "What did you say?"
"Don't," Bruce said. He hadn't let go of Ruth's hand. He could feel her trembling. "Don't... talk to her. We're just... we're going."
Dickson looked at Bruce. He looked at Ruth. He saw Bruce's hand holding hers. And he saw his chance. He saw the one thing in the world Bruce was protecting.
"Or what, freak?" Dickson laughed, a short, ugly bark. "You'll... what? You'll stare at me? You'll run and cry to your..."
He didn't finish. He turned back to Ruth. And with a casual, contemptuous, almost lazy motion, he shoved her.
It wasn't a violent push. It wasn't meant to hurt her. It was a push of pure, dismissive disrespect. A one-handed "get out of my way" shove to her shoulder.
"Get out of my face," he sneered.
Ruth stumbled back, her foot catching on a crack in the pavement. She gasped, her hand flying from Bruce's to catch her balance.
She didn't fall.
But she had been touched.