The final bell rang, but Jake didn't make it out the door.
"Jake Cross, to the main office please. Jake Cross."
The announcement echoed through the hallway like a summons. William gave him a sideways glance.
"What now?"
Jake shrugged, shouldering his backpack. "No clue."
He headed toward the front office, each step heavier than the last. The halls were emptying, lockers slamming shut like punctuation marks on conversations. He pushed open the office door and was met with the familiar hum of the ceiling lights and the smell of paper and old coffee.
"Have a seat, Jake," Principal Lyman said, motioning him into the small office.
Jake sat across from the desk, trying to read the principal's expression. Lyman wasn't the hard-nosed type. He was soft-spoken, with tired eyes and a kindness he didn't wear loudly.
"I wanted to check in," Lyman said, folding his hands on the desk. "You've been doing well in your classes, despite... well, everything. Your teachers speak highly of you."
Jake stayed silent, unsure where this was going.
"But I also heard you've been thinking about leaving. Dropping out."
Jake stared at the desk. "It's crossed my mind."
"Jake," Lyman said gently, "you've got potential. And I don't say that like it's a throwaway line — I mean it. College, vocational programs... there are options. We can help. There are grants and support systems. You don't have to shoulder everything alone."
Jake looked up, jaw tight. "It's not about pride. I've got a sick mom, a little sister, and bills that keep showing up. I can't afford to sit in a classroom for two more months when I could be out working."
"I understand," Lyman said. "More than you know. But please — don't close the door just yet. Give yourself a little more time. Let us try to help."
Jake gave a short nod. "I'll think about it."
But he didn't know if that was true.
Jake's first stop after school was the pharmacy. The bottle of medicine felt like gold in his hand. He cradled it in the front pocket of his hoodie, as if it could fall through the seams of his life just like everything else.
The walk home was quiet — for a while.
Until Rick showed up.
Jake heard the laugh before he saw him. That fake, polished charm peeled away the second Kate wasn't around.
"Hey, Cross!" Rick's voice bounced off the brick walls of the alley that cut behind the football field — the shortcut Jake always took.
Jake turned, not stopping.
Rick stepped into view, two of his buddies in tow, grinning like they were in on a joke only they thought was funny.
"You think you're hot shit now?" Rick sneered. "Flipping Brandon on his back in gym? Playing the tragic hero with Kate?"
Jake kept walking.
Rick moved to block his path. "You don't belong here, Jake. You're a walking pity party with fists. But you know what you'll always be? The kid with the sick mom and no dad."
Jake's grip tightened in his hoodie pocket. He tried to step around him, but Rick shoved him back.
The medicine bottle slipped from his hoodie and hit the pavement.
Clink. Clatter. Roll.
Jake's eyes snapped to the bottle as it spun to a stop. He bent down to grab it, but Rick kicked it.
It skidded across the concrete and into a puddle near the storm drain.
Jake froze.
Everything inside him — the stress, the anger, the exhaustion — cracked wide open. He stood, eyes burning, fists clenched.
Rick laughed again. "Oops."
The punch came fast.
Jake didn't think — he moved. Just like his dad taught him. One step in, controlled. He hit Rick clean in the ribs, then the gut, then swept his legs out.
Rick went down hard, the air whooshing from his lungs.
One of his friends stepped forward, but Jake turned on him so fast the guy backed off, hands raised.
Jake stood over Rick, chest heaving, voice low and shaking.
"Don't ever touch something that isn't yours. Don't ever speak about my family again."
He grabbed the medicine bottle — muddy, but unbroken — and walked away, fists still trembling.
Home was quiet when he returned. Anna was curled up on the couch with her book, the old rabbit in her lap. Samantha was asleep again, breath raspy but even.
Jake washed the bottle off and left it on the kitchen counter. He made the soup — chicken and rice from a can, with a few herbs from a cracked spice jar — and helped Anna with her homework. He didn't speak much. He didn't have to. Anna seemed to sense that something was simmering just beneath his skin.
Later, after the dishes were done and the house was still, Jake found himself in the hallway outside his mom's room. The door was slightly open. He peeked in — she was asleep, the blanket rising and falling slowly.
He stepped back and opened the hall closet. The old duffel bag sat where it always had, half-buried under winter coats and broken umbrellas.
Jake pulled it out and carried it to his room.
The zipper creaked like it hadn't been opened in years. Inside were the usual things: an old canteen, a knife still in its sheath, a military journal with notes and strange symbols. Photos — his dad in uniform, smiling with his arm around Samantha. Younger. Stronger.
Then Jake saw something tucked beneath the clothes — something small, metal, and unlike anything else in the bag.
It was shaped like a curved compass, but it wasn't a tool Jake recognized. Smooth, dark silver. Warm to the touch, even though it should've been cold.
He turned it over in his hands.
And for the first time in a long while… he felt like something had shifted.
Like maybe there was more to his father's disappearance than he'd ever imagined.