For a second, Martin could only stare. Ava was a crumpled heap on the floor, and Jennifer stood over her, fists still clenched, breathing hard. What has she done now?

  The principal’s office door opened. Caleb stepped out, his expression unreadable. He closed the door softly, then looked down the hall. His eyes took in the scene: Ava on the ground, Martin gaping, Jennifer looking like a vengeful statue.

  A slow, genuine smile spread across Caleb’s face. He folded his arms, tilting his head. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice a calm contrast to the chaos. “Having fun without me? That’s unfair.”

  As if on cue, Ava stirred. She pushed herself into a sitting position, one hand cupping her nose. She pulled it away, stared at the smear of crimson on her palm, and let out a sharp, piercing scream.

  The principal’s door flew open.

  “RUN!” Caleb barked.

  It was pure instinct. Jennifer grabbed Martin’s arm, Caleb shoved him from behind, and the three of them bolted down the corridor, past a stunned principal, out the nearest side exit, and into the fading daylight. They didn’t stop until they were three blocks away, lungs burning, leaning against a brick wall in a quiet alley.

  “So,” Jennifer panted, wiping sweat from her brow. “What are you going to do now?”

  Martin, still clutching the towel around his waist, gave a weak, resigned shrug. “Guess I’ll wait for the vaccine.”

  And so, The Performance began. Martin went to school, not just attending, but performing attendance—smiling in the hallways, laughing at jokes, participating in class. He spent afternoons with Jennifer and Caleb at the park, talking about games, about music, about everything except the eight-month countdown ticking like a silent metronome in his chest.

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  But the performance was brittle. At night, the facade crumbled. He’d jolt awake, his body trembling with violent, uncontrollable tremors. He’d stare at his shaking hands in the dark, the fear a cold, living thing coiled in his gut. Why do I have to act okay? he’d think, staring at the ceiling. I’m not.

  The daytime teasing from other students persisted—whispers of “Pee-boy,” snickers in the lunch line—but it rolled off him now. With Jennifer’s fierce glares and Caleb’s silent, intimidating presence flanking him, the barbs lost their sting. He even found a formal, embossed invitation in his locker a week later: Ava Mioro requests the pleasure of your company at her birthday celebration. The party was scheduled for the night after the school dance. He tossed it in his bag, unmoved. Another trap. He didn’t care.

  The “live your best life” mantra took a reckless turn at the public pool one Saturday. Given a bright blue floater, Martin looked at the deep end. I should learn to swim before I die, he thought, then immediately corrected himself: Before I get the vaccine. The logic was flawed, but the impulse was strong. He shoved the floater away.

  He sank like a stone.

  Panic, thrashing, the burn of chlorinated water in his sinuses. Then strong hands hauling him out, laying him on the wet concrete. A lifeguard leaned over him, preparing for rescue breaths.

  Before her lips could touch his, Jennifer’s foot hooked around the lifeguard’s ankle, sending her tumbling backwards into the pool with a splash. “I’ve got it!” Jennifer declared, dropping to her knees. She performed CPR with frantic, determined precision until Martin convulsed, coughing up a fountain of water.

  Later, shivering under a towel, Martin sat alone on a deck chair, watching the carefree splashing from a distance. Jennifer emerged from the water and sat beside him.

  “Done swimming?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Yeah, kinda. You?”

  “I think we both know I’m not getting back in that water.”

  They shared a laugh, shaky but real. The near-death experience hung in the air, unmentioned.

  “Hey,” Jennifer said, her voice softening. She toyed with the edge of her towel. “I know the big dance is for the SSS3 graduates, but… we did get those volunteer invitations.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So… if you’re free. Or, you know, haven’t been asked by anyone else…” She took a breath, her courage visibly gathering. “Would you like to go with me? Tomorrow?”

  Martin froze. The question, so simple and so monumental, hit him like a second wave. He choked, a fit of coughing seizing him as residual water betrayed him again.

  “Marty? Are you okay?” Jennifer freaked out, patting his back.

  When he caught his breath, he waved her off, a weak chuckle escaping. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just….” He looked at her, at her hopeful, nervous face, and a strange thought surfaced: I don’t know who put my name on that volunteer list, but I’m glad they did.

  He was squatting on the ground, Jennifer’s warm hand on his shoulder. He glanced past her, toward the pool. Caleb was in the water, only his eyes and the top of his head visible above the surface. He was watching them. Not with his usual frown, but with an intense, unblinking stare that felt like a warning. Then, slowly, he sank below the waterline and disappeared.

  Martin turned back to Jennifer, the image of Caleb’s submerged gaze lingering. The invitation, the dance, the fragile hope in her eyes—it all felt suddenly more dangerous, and more precious, than the deep end of the pool.