———
When they ask how we survived, I tell them the truth, we ran. We ran as fast as we could, and we didn’t look back.
The reporters want a hero, but there isn't one.
Only the memory of a captain we couldn't save, a handprint on my arm that I know will never go away, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, the second shooter is still breathing.
We made it out. That’s all.
Tomorrow, there will be therapy. There will be a team meeting, and more questions, and maybe even another practice.
But tonight, it’s just me and the silence, and the memory of how it felt to be wanted alive, even for a second.
And for now, that’s enough.
FOUR
The room they put me in looks exactly like the ones on TV, except smaller, cheaper, more desperate.
The table is scuffed particleboard, the chairs meant for people they don’t want to sit long.
The two-way glass is so obvious it’s almost insulting, why not just paint “You’re Being Watched” across it and call it a day?
The whole place reeks of Lysol and government money, the kind of sterile that makes you want to be dirty on purpose.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Could be half an hour, could be three.
There’s a clock on the wall but the battery’s dead, the second hand stuck between numbers, some asshole’s idea of a metaphor.
When the detective finally comes in, he brings with him a file folder the thickness of a college thesis and the energy of a man who’s already decided how this story goes.
He sits. Doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t even offer water.
He’s older, white hair at the temples, nose broken at least once. He flips the file open, skims the first page, and then starts asking questions in a voice so casual it almost sounds bored.
“Let’s go over it again, Darius.”
I say nothing. He doesn’t need me to.
“You were on the ice, end of practice, when the first shots rang out. Is that correct?”
I nod. Yes.
“You ran for cover, made it to the utility corridor with” He glances down. “Rosen, Asher, and two others?”
“Yes.”
He looks up, eyes flat and expressionless. “You recall the name of the first casualty?”
“Ryan Holt.” My throat closes up for a second, like I’ve swallowed something with edges.
“Your captain.”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice level, keep my face still. If I crack now, they’ll never let me out of this room.
The questions keep coming. How many shots? How many shooters? What did you see, what did you smell, what did you do with your hands?
He wants everything down to the fucking nanosecond, and every time I answer, I feel myself getting smaller, like he’s whittling me down to just the raw, useless facts.
