Chapter 2

I floated up into the air and looked down.

Felix Helman was lying like a corpse on the cement floor, his face going blue, and his lips pale.

The bottle of medication in his pocket had slipped out a little.

I wanted to shout at him, but nothing came out.

A flurry of hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway outside.

It was Mr. Mantooth.

He plastered himself at the door of the equipment storage room and looked through the window on top. He was frowning tightly.

“Felix, can you hear me?” Mr. Mantooth knocked softly on the door.

No one responded to him.

Mr. Mantooth’s expression shifted. He reached out for the doorknob.

“What are you doing, Mr. Mantooth?” came Dad’s voice from the other end of the hallway. Mr. Mantooth’s hand froze midair.

“Mr. Helman, I think there’s something wrong with Felix.”

“He’s perfectly fine.” Dad strode over and pushed Mr. Mantooth aside. “Are you trying to get out of your job, Mr. Mantooth? I’ll handle my own group. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But Mr. Helman, the kid’s face has gone blue. I’ve seen heat exhaustion before, and it wasn’t like this.”

“How long have you been a teacher, Mr. Mantooth?” Dad was glaring daggers at Mr. Mantooth. “Don’t get involved.”

Mr. Mantooth gritted his teeth and took another look at me through the window. Then, he looked at Dad’s expression.

He went away.

“He’ll get back up once he gets bored.”

The hallway fell silent again.

Mr. Mantooth walked to the end of the hallway and glanced at the closed door from afar. He did not come back.

Orientation had ended.

My spirit floated just outside the equipment storage room, watching Dad standing beside the stage.

Jameson Hart was handing him a water bottle, smiling as he said something.

Dressed in a pristine uniform and standing under the sun, he looked like he was glowing.

Dad accepted the water and patted Jameson’s shoulder firmly.

“You did a great job today, kid!”

“Thanks, Mr. Helman!” Jameson’s voice was so bright and loud that everyone could hear it a hallway away.

Dad looked at him with affection in his eyes.

He had never once looked at me that way in seventeen years.

When I was younger, I asked Mom, “Dad doesn’t like me, does he?”

Mom was quiet for a long time before answering, “Your father’s just bad at talking about his emotions, but he loves you.”

I knew that that was not true.

Dad liked kids like Jameson Hart: loud and bold. He liked the kind of kid who played basketball and got into fights.

Dad did not like that I spoke softly and that my feet pointed inwards when I walked. He did not like that I could barely run during physical education class and that I did not mess around with other kids.

The lunch bell rang, and the noise of thousands of students heading for the cafeteria sounded.

The heat in the equipment storage room had ramped up to more than 200°F. It felt like I was in an oven.

On the floor, my lips cracked from the dryness. My face turned from blue to white.

Sunlight filtered through the window but did not land on me.

I tried to guess the time.

It had been nearly three hours since I first collapsed.

From what I knew, the window to save a patient having a heart attack was four minutes.