The cold, alpine air ached in his burning lungs, but he didn't stop running.

He pushed himself to the limit, one leg in front of the other.

He was flying.

The crinkling sounds of his windbreaker faded away. He could hear the audience in the stands. His father's voice rose above the rest, shouting in that shrill, humiliating way he always did when he got excited.

Brodie closed his eyes and ran. Cold air battered his face. He tried to hold on to the dear memory, but it slipped away. He could only hear his ragged breathing and his ears ringing loudly.

His breath hitched.

Then his leg spasmed.

He fell hard onto the frosted grass beside the track. Pain lanced through his shoulder, which took the brunt of the impact.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back, staring at the cloudless blue sky.

He bent his leg as the muscle continued to spasm, gripped his knee, drew his thigh to his chest, and tried to breathe through the pain. He should be used to the red-hot throbbing by now. But each time, it reminded him of cold metal cracking bone and blinding agony.

He had trauma. He knew. But who didn't?

Time passed, and a private plane passed overhead, leaving a white plume of smoke, and the pain in his knee settled into a manageable ache. He hadn't found the confidence to rise when an approaching scuff of shoes walked over the track.

He slowly lowered his foot to flatten it on the frosted grass.

Blinking up, he was suddenly looking into Emery Fellmount's smug face.

"Brodie," Emery said with fake sympathy. His brown hair was styled short. His dark, nearly black eyes glinted with the familiar spark of danger they always held. "I thought we had this talk already."

"Must have forgotten," Brodie replied gruffly.

Emery scoffed.

Brodie didn't rise, content to remain sprawled on the grass because he wasn't getting anywhere with his bum leg. He could outrun them all on a good day.

But he hadn't had one of those in a long time.

He nodded at the three other guys standing over him, blocking the dreary sun and casting him in shadow. "Hello, boys. Daniel, Leo, Eric." He whistled. "Are those the jackets? Cool."

"Hey, Brodie," Daniel greeted, his sunny blonde hair rustling with the light breeze. He fingered his dark blue windbreaker with the track team's patch logo of a bird in flight. "Real snazzy, huh? Viv is going to go nuts."

Brodie nodded. "Hell yeah."

Leo gave Brodie a cocked eyebrow, but he didn't reply. That wasn't surprising; he was a quiet guy. His curly black hair was long enough that the coach would give him a reaming.

Brodie didn't resist when Emery's hands grasped the front of his thin windbreaker and hauled him to stand on his aching leg. He hissed air between his clenched teeth. Pain shook up his leg and made him nauseous.

He contemplated puking on Emery.

Maybe later.

More hands jostled him, grabbing and dragging him through the frosted field. He stumbled to keep up with the roughness.

"Sorry, Brodie," Eric whispered. Despite his sympathy, his grip on Brodie's bicep was tight enough to bruise.

"Yeah, I know," Brodie muttered bitterly.

The wintry wind whistled down the curved tunnel.

The cold stone was covered in a colourful school mural of white and dark blue, with some bright yellow mixed in to make the contemporary art vibrant.

The sound echoed here.

Every knuckle meeting flesh, every kick to his side and stomach, choking the air from his lungs, and every pitiful noise he couldn't hold back replayed against cold stone.

"Do you get it now?" Emery huffed, teeth set in a snarl.

Brodie slumped. He caught his fall on the unforgiving pavement, scraping his palms and using his shaking arms to hold his aching body upright.

"Not," Brodie gasped out, "really."

He was aware it was a stupid answer. He could have said something cooler if his throbbing head wasn't making him dizzy. He wasn't interested in playing bully with Emery and his minions.

Not today.

Emery's arm reared back for another punch, but Eric grasped his wrist. Emery's gaze snapped to him in fury, and Eric, the hero, flinched.

"Come on," Eric tried, "he gets it. Let's just go."

"He's right," Daniel said. "Let's go, man."

Brodie tried to stand. Someone kicked his injured knee. He'd bet it was Leo. He fell onto his aching ass, and now the pain was radiating over his lower half and up to his hips.

He slumped heavily against the mural-covered stone and gave Emery's withering glare a bloody smile.

Leo was leaning his shoulder against the wall to Brodie's left. He flexed his fingers, knuckles bloody. His blue eyes were colder than the ice puddling on the ground not far away.

Emery yanked his arm away from Eric angrily. "If we see you in the field again, you'll regret your life. Get it?"

What is this—a bad Mafia movie? Are you going to bury me six feet under for running track, Emery?

Brodie waved a hand through the air tiredly. "Yeah." He was hurting. He took a rattling breath and rasped, "I get it."

Eventually, they grew bored of tormenting him with a few more punches and well-placed kicks. He didn't watch them leave the tunnel. They'd be making their way toward the warmth of the school, probably to settle into the dorm. They must have detoured to the field and caught him coincidentally.

The sound of their departing footsteps echoed against the cold stone.

He unzipped his windbreaker enough for his hand to slip inside. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter from the inner pocket.

The pack was squashed.

He placed a salvaged cigarette between his bloodied lips. His hand shook as he brought the lighter's flame to the tip. With a faint crackle, the rolled paper caught fire, burning bright red.

From his jacket pocket, he checked his phone. The crack on the screen was there before, from when he'd dropped it on the pavement last year. There was no new damage, surprisingly. He was sure he had suffered a kick to his side a few times.

Today's date, December 1st, glared at him from the lock screen.

Brodie took the cigarette from his aching lips, and blood smeared the filter. He smiled wistfully. "Happy birthday, Dad."

Head lolling, he blew smoke into the wintry wind, dancing in wisps down the tunnel and into the field beyond. It was snowing heavily now.

He laughed through his nose.

The first day of the new semester. He had already gotten the crap kicked out of him and pushed his leg to the limit, throwing months of physiotherapy down the drain.

Greeeeat.

"Brodie?"

Looking over his shoulder hurt. "Donny," Brodie rasped, turning with a slight limp to face his friend. Dressed in a black winter jacket and jeans, Donny approached him with a deep frown. "Yeah—yeah."

Flapping a hand between them, he hoped it would be enough to wave off Donny's concern. The last thing Brodie wanted to do was admit he'd gotten beat up.

"It's been a month since the last semester, and you have already gotten into a fight?" Donny smiled fondly, but his green eyes were full of worry. "Who was it? Trevor, again?"

Brodie shook his head. He began to limp towards the dorm. Falling snow and wintry wind blowing through the trees at the edge of the field burned his windblown cheeks.

Past the expansive field with cobblestone pathways leading to different buildings, the quad was bustling. The new semester had begun, which meant a new batch of students would be causing a stir.

When Donny stepped beside him and Brodie saw the uncharacteristically messy way Donny's styled black hair slapped his forehead, Brodie laughed softly.

"So?" Donny asked, hands in his jeans pockets, narrowing his eyes at Brodie. "Who did that?"

"Is it bad?" Brodie asked, touching his aching face and wincing from the sting that involuntarily caused his eyes to water. He hadn't looked in a mirror yet, having been focused on dragging himself out of that tunnel and returning to his room with a limp.

A pair of boys passed them, going the opposite way.

Probably third years.

First-years often looked lost and in a daze, and second-years were more confident. The third years were cocky, knowing they only had a year left to finish, and then they were free to do what they wanted. Fourth years were usually finished with the whole teenage rebellion shtick and were more involved in school life.

The other boys gave them double-takes. One of them elbowed the other, murmured something, and they burst into laughter.

Brodie snorted. Jerks.

"Yeah—it's bad." Donny frowned. "Your nose is broken again."

"Crap," Brodie whispered, adjusting the heavy backpack slung over his shoulder. "It had just healed, too."

"So, what happened?" Donny asked when they reached their dorm.

The snow-covered building was ancient. Not literally, but it felt that way. Especially when the heat stopped working, the plumbing clanked and clunked, and the dorm housemaster was a grizzled old guy who'd rather whack them into submission with his yardstick than waste his time trying to get through to a bunch of stubborn delinquents. It was one of four dorms that housed the boys who attended Richardson Academy. He'd heard that the fourth-year dorm was nicer but hadn't seen the interior himself.

"Went for a run and fell," Brodie lied.

"Should you be running?"

"Nope."

A blast of warm air hit him as they entered the dorm. Walking over a crack in the tacky black and white tiling of the foyer caused it to shift, and the noise of the tiling rubbing against each other gave him pause.

"When did that happen?" he asked Donny, pointing down.

Donny shrugged.

The crack hadn't been there when they'd left a month ago for break. While sneaking out, that noise could give them away if they weren't careful.

"Maybe Trevor," Donny offered while he took off his jacket and hung it on one of the many hooks near the front door. Trevor seemed to be Donny's go-to person for blame today. But this time, it was plausible.

Trevor was known to be uncontrollable when he lost his cool—Brodie understood there was irony in him calling someone else uncontrollable. But Brodie rarely got angry anymore, having learned how to control it through therapy. Trevor constantly put holes in the wall, broke furniture, and pounced on anyone who dared make him angry.

Brodie tried to avoid the guy.

They had a new student struggling to devise a plan to get his three suitcases up the wooden staircase, landing with a potted plant beneath a stained-glassed window, and the other staircase leading up to the rooms. Lighter blonde than Brodie's own, brown eyes and a dimpled smile that shone as he took them in.

It wasn't abnormal throughout the year for people to pop in and disappear—usually sent to juvie when they couldn't handle not breaking the law for four years.

"Sorry," the boy said hastily, rolling the heavy suitcase that had been blocking the staircase to the side. "There's, uh, nobody—" He gestured to the small counter by the front door. It housed a lone chair with dark green cushioning.

"Mr. Barlowe won't be on duty until tonight," Donny said, walking forward and grabbing one of the suitcase handles. "There should be a paper on the counter. It'll tell you what room you're in."

The boy shook his head, his brown jacket dripping, melting snow onto the tiled floor. He put his hands out, wagging them nervously. "Y-you don't have to help me."

Donny just smiled, pulling the suitcase handle and leaning it so its weight was on its wheels. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as Brodie walked to the counter. "Which room is he in?"

"I need to know who he is," Brodie said.

"Rory," the boy replied quietly.

"Rory," Brodie repeated, turning his attention to the list left near a cup full of pens, pencils, and a notepad filled to the brim with sticky notes and loose papers.

Running his finger down the list, he paused at Emery's, Leo's, and Daniel's names. They were in a room together. They had been since the first semester of this year. Special treatment for jocks. Even though he'd enjoyed the same privileges last year, it gave him a bitter taste in his mouth.

In his first year at Richardson Academy, Brodie had shared a room with Emery and Daniel, but that felt like a lifetime ago.

Descending the list, he came across Trevor's name and skimmed down quickly until he found Rory's.

"He's with us," Brodie said curiously, and Donny made a face. Not in offence to Rory, but the boy probably took it that way because his expression fell, and his dimples disappeared.

"What happened to Auggie?" Donny asked.

"Don't see him here," Brodie replied, looking over the paper once more.

With a roll of unease in his stomach, Brodie approached the third suitcase and grabbed the handle. August and he weren't close, mostly keeping to themselves. August already had an established group of friends, which made it hard to get to know him as more than a roommate, but he was a nice guy.

August was in trouble for stealing. Even though his parents owned an airline and were filthy rich, he gave himself the five-finger discount until police had caught him with over five thousand dollars' worth of jewellery in his pockets.

Did Auggie mess up during the break?

"Come on," Brodie said to Rory with a smile. "We'll show you the room. Just a warning: don't chip the paint off the walls, no matter how satisfying it looks, or we'll die of asbestos."

Donny laughed, and they began the slow work of hauling over ten pounds each up two flights of stairs.

Passing the stained glass window casting colours over the scratched wooden floorboards, they took a brief break, huffing a bit.

"So, you didn't stab someone to get in here, right?" Donny asked Rory.

Rory laughed nervously. "No." His fingers flexed on the long handle of his suitcase. "It's..." Donny must have noticed the slight shake in Rory's voice because he glanced at Brodie for help.

"You don't have to tell us," Brodie said gently. He wasn't about to explain why he was attending a school with twenty-four-hour security, either.

Rory smiled sheepishly.

"Not until we get drunk, and then we'll be telling each other our entire life stories," Donny said with a grin, starting up the next flight of stairs. The suitcase made a loud thwack against each step.

"I don't drink," Rory replied with a laugh, following.

"None of us do," Donny shot back with a wink.

Brodie was last. By the time they reached the upstairs corridor, from the running earlier and getting beat up, his body was aching badly enough for Donny to notice.

"You good, Brodie?" Donny asked as they wheeled the suitcases down the long hallway.

They passed the shared bathroom, flanking doors where music or muffled conversation could be heard, and then to their room at the end. The familiar door was beside a large window that gave a glimpse of a dense forest shadowed by craggy hills covered in snow.

"I'm good," Brodie rasped.

"I was going to ask..." Rory said, wincing in empathy as his brown gaze took in the deep aches throbbing in Brodie's face.

"Fell," Brodie grumbled and forced a smile so Rory didn't think the concern irritated him. The split on his lip stung. "The track was icy, and I had a good tumble."

"A few times," Donny murmured, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking their door.

Brodie rolled his eyes, following Donny and Rory into the room. "Yeah, Donny, a few times."

Breathing in the familiar dusty air and rusty scent that always clung to the paint-chipped brown walls and scratched wooden floors, he groaned tiredly. "This sucks..." Brodie wheeled the suitcase to the bed Rory would occupy for the semester.

"I know," Donny agreed, leaving the suitcase he'd carried up beside the bed as well. "I spent the entire month training with my dad. I would rather suffer that a hundred times than be back here—twiddling my thumbs."

Brodie gave Rory—who looked unsure—an encouraging smile before walking to his side of the room and dropping his backpack on his bed. He toed off his running shoes, which had left wet marks on the grey carpet covering a large portion of the old planks. "Are you joining the team this semester again?"

"Yeah," Donny replied, unzipping his sweatshirt. "Not interested in starting at zero." He cursed under his breath. "Sorry, Brodie. My bad. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Brodie lied. The words hurt. But not because of Donny. The reminder that he wasn't on the track team anymore rotted in the pit of his stomach, unable to be ignored. "I'm over it."

"Brodie," Donny said warily.

Rory had begun to claim his half of the room. Donny's bed was nearest Rory's, in an L-shape with a desk between them and a frosted window with the drapes pulled back to allow in sunlight. The closet was full of their stuff, but Brodie would move some things to make space for Rory if needed.

"That's yours," Brodie said to Rory, pointing to a tallboy dresser as he unzipped his windbreaker. A mirror was mounted on top with a frame that matched the dresser's oak wood. The other two, Brodie's and Donny's, didn't have accents—old and scratched. None of the furniture in the dorm matched.

For a place that housed rich kids, the buildings were majorly outdated.

"Thanks," Rory replied with a smile.

"No problem."

Draping his damp windbreaker over the footboard of his bed, he unzipped his backpack and took out a book. He shoved the bag against the paint-chipped wall to give himself space to flop onto the mattress.

Donny sat on the edge of his bed and began unlacing his boots.

"I'm over track," Brodie said and wagged the book in the air as Donny gave him a disbelieving smile. "I've got a new hobby—poetry. I'm becoming cultured."

"Yeah, right," Donny grumbled, kicking off his boots. "Broderick Winslow is finished with track—when pigs fly."

"Got a bum leg. Don't have a choice."

"That's what the doctor you saw over break said?" Donny frowned. "That you have to give up track?"

Staring up at the poetry book he held open, Brodie didn't retain a word written but pretended to. "Yeah," he lied with a lump in his throat. "I can't ever run professionally again."