Kyle didn't sleep.
That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the way his phone stayed perfectly silent all night, like Greywick was confident he'd already received the message.
At 6:42 a.m., his alarm went off anyway.
Kyle stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks he'd memorized years ago, and wondered which parts of today had already been decided for him.
Downstairs, his mom was making toast. She smiled when she saw him, the way she always did, but something in her expression lagged—like the smile had been approved before the emotion caught up.
"Field trip today, right?" she said casually.
Kyle froze.
"Yeah," he answered carefully. "I think so."
She slid a plate toward him. "Permission slip was already signed. Saved me the trouble."
Kyle swallowed. "Did you… remember signing it?"
She laughed. "Don't be silly."
That was not an answer.
Outside, the street was too quiet. No birds. No dogs. Just the hum of the town waking up in perfect, synchronized time.
Liz was waiting at the corner.
Kyle hadn't texted her.
She hadn't texted him.
Still, there she was—backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back, eyes sharp and tired.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"Neither did you."
They walked together toward the bus stop. The sky was painted in soft morning colors that didn't quite belong together, like someone had blended yesterday's sunset into today by mistake.
"How many people remember agreeing to this?" Kyle asked.
Liz shook her head. "I asked three friends. They all said yes. Then they couldn't explain why."
The bus was already there.
Its engine wasn't running.
The door was open.
Kyle stopped. "Liz."
"I know."
The driver sat motionless behind the wheel, hands folded, eyes fixed forward.
Students climbed aboard anyway, laughing, talking, normal.
Too normal.
Liz leaned close to Kyle, her voice barely above a breath. "If something goes wrong—"
"—we don't split up," he finished.
She nodded.
They stepped onto the bus together.
The door hissed shut behind them.
The engine started.
The bus pulled away from Greywick High, and for the first time since Kyle could remember…
Greywick let them leave.
The bus smelled like vinyl seats and too many different perfumes layered together.
Kyle slid into a seat near the middle. Liz took the window seat beside him, setting her backpack between her feet like an anchor.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The road unspooled outside the window—familiar streets first, then turns Kyle didn't recognize. Greywick's buildings thinned, houses giving way to trees that leaned a little too close to the road.
Liz rested her forehead lightly against the glass. "This is wrong," she said softly.
"Yeah," Kyle replied. "But it's a calm wrong. Which feels worse."
She huffed a quiet laugh. "You always joke when you're scared."
"Only a little." He glanced at her. "You always go quiet."
She didn't deny it.
The bus hit a small bump. Liz's shoulder brushed his.
Neither of them moved away.
"Hey," Kyle said, lowering his voice. "You still with me?"
She turned to face him. Up close, her eyes were tired—but steady. "I don't think I could do this without you."
The honesty of it caught him off guard.
Kyle looked down at his hands, then back at her. "Good," he said. "Because I wasn't planning on letting you."
Her lips curved into a small smile. Not bright. Not playful.
Real.
The bus grew quieter as they moved farther from town. Conversations faded. Laughter dulled. Even the engine seemed to hum more softly.
Liz reached into her backpack and pulled out her notebook. She didn't open it. Just held it, fingers tight around the edges.
"My biggest fear," she said, staring straight ahead, "is that Greywick isn't broken."
Kyle frowned. "What do you mean?"
"That it's doing exactly what it's meant to do. And we're the problem."
He considered that, then shook his head. "No. If noticing makes us the problem, then that's not a system worth trusting."
She glanced at him. "You sound very sure."
"I'm not," he admitted. "But I'm sure about this part."
He hesitated—then reached for her hand.
Slow. Careful.
Liz looked down at their fingers, then laced hers through his.
The contact was warm. Steady.
Grounding.
Outside, the trees began to thin.
Ahead, the road dipped—and the sky changed color.
Not dramatically.
Just… off by one shade.
Liz squeezed his hand. "Kyle."
"Yeah."
"Whatever happens next…"
He met her gaze. "We don't let it rewrite us."
The bus slowed.
Somewhere up ahead, something waited.