"Freya!" I was bombarded with people as soon as I exited the bus. I smiled a little, flinching away from the noise. A bunch of ninth years looked at me excitedly, about to talk, but Marcia aggressively cut them off.

"Shut the hell up, kiddies!" She hissed, then placed her hands on her hips and turned to me. As she spoke, I tried to casually cover the wound on my forehead with my hair. "The school took notice of what happened with Crawley. They're having some announcement later on behalf on what happened." She smirked.

I pressed my lips together in a halfway smile, and gave an excuse to go to the bathroom. She shrugged her shoulders half heartedly and went back to yelling at the ninth years. I turned west, facing the parking lot, and snuck off that way, Marcia too engrossed in what she was doing to notice me. My gaze swept the grounds, searching the rims for something I recognized.

"Bingo," my voice was low, and I crouched against the brick building beside me. The car was, in fact, a Chevy Camaro, 2010 with red and black rims and goodyear tires. I was right - as I usually was, about cars - and determination set my stride as I stood and walked towards it. I wrote down the license plate just in case I needed it, then peered through the windows, searching for some kind of item I could use as a key for identification.

"Shit," I muttered, realizing every window was tinted. Even the windshield — wasn't that illegal? I grumbled, and began to walk away when I heard the bell ring. As I glanced back at the red and black race striped car, I noticed a last thing. A bumper sticker on the back that said C.H.P. I knew it by heart. Those men who took Adrian away had badges with those same letters on their arms. It was the Crazie Help Program.