I'll Stop the World (112)

I’m their only hope.

Which means—somehow—I have to move.

Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. I can feel bruises beginning to blossom all along my left side, my back, my legs. My knee feels hot and damp; the gash from yesterday must have reopened. Moving gingerly, I push myself into a sitting position, then close my eyes and wait for the world to stop spinning.

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

I blink a few times before the floating images of the person walking toward me solidify into one. The man is tall and lanky, with deep-brown skin, short black hair, and a thin pencil line of a mustache. His face seems familiar, but my brain refuses to give me any more context that might help with an ID. He stops when he reaches me and sets his paper bag of groceries down on the ground, extending a hand.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, grimacing as I reach up. He pulls me to my feet, where I teeter uncertainly for a few moments before regaining my balance.

“What happened?”

I shake my head, not in the mood to explain how I got waylaid by a trio of sadistic middle schoolers. “Just wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’ll say.” He frowns, his eyes scanning over me. “You should put some ice on that,” he says, gesturing toward my face.

I touch my hand to my cheek and wince. Already, I can feel the side of my face puffing up, and although I can’t see myself, I imagine the bruise will take the general shape of one of Robbie’s sneakers.

But I don’t have time to worry about myself right now. “I’m good,” I lie, and force a smile—ow—turning away to limp toward the school. None of my injuries will matter if I can get there in time.

I haven’t made it more than five steps before my bad knee—the one branded with Stan’s scar—buckles underneath me, sending me sprawling. “Goddammit,” I growl as loose gravel claws its way into my palms.

His hand comes under my arm, helping me back up again. “Look, kid, why don’t you let me give you a ride home? Or to the hospital? My car is right across the street.” He points to the row of squat duplexes behind the Food Mart. “It’s really no problem.”

I shake my head, and immediately regret it. It feels like the inside of my skull is lined in barbed wire, and every little movement sends my brain sloshing up against it. “Thanks, but I’ve got something I need to do.”

“Okay,” he says, looking doubtful. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m in unit one-oh-three. Just come knock; I should be home all night.”

“Thanks,” I say again. Gingerly, I try putting weight on my bad knee. It hurts, but it holds.

“My name’s Michael, by the way,” he says.

Suddenly, it clicks why he looks familiar.

Michael McMillain, the man who will spend the next three decades in prison for starting the fire that kills my grandparents. I’ve seen his face countless times before, in a black-and-white mug shot on Stan’s murder board.

No wonder he was always so convinced that Michael was innocent.

Stan was his alibi.

For a second, I just stare at him, blinking dumbly as the gravity of what’s about to happen falls on me like a sledgehammer. But there’s nothing I can do to warn him, at least not without sounding completely insane. He’ll never listen to me, some random stranger who just got beaten up outside the supermarket. The only way to save him is to save Bill and Veronica.

I stumble away from McMillain, my mind numb to the protests of my body. If I can just get to the school in time, I tell myself, it’ll be okay. I can save him from his unjust fate. I can save them from their awful deaths. Maybe I can even save myself.

My injuries keep me from moving quickly, but I stubbornly press on. Already, I think I can smell faint traces of smoke, although it could be my mind playing tricks on me. I don’t have a watch to know what time it is, but it feels like it has to be nearly six, maybe later. Am I already too late?

I come out from behind the Food Mart and make my way down the sidewalk, toward the school. I wish I could move faster, but my body is refusing to cooperate, sending signals of protest through me with every step.

“Justin?”

I look up from the ground, where my attention has been focused on dragging one foot in front of the other, to see Noah illuminated by the glow of the streetlights, peering at me from the other side of the street. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a tie, and a VOTE FOR DIANE pin. I wonder why he’s here and not at the debate. I raise a hand in greeting. “Hey, Noah.”

He jogs across the street toward me, his eyes widening when he gets close enough to appreciate the extent of my injuries. “Whoa.”

“It’s fine.”

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“It’s really not that bad.”

He shakes his head, frowning, but doesn’t challenge me, probably because he doesn’t care. “Have you seen Rose?”

“Isn’t she at the debate?”

He shakes his head, hands in his pockets. “We were supposed to meet up at her house, but she wasn’t there. I waited as long as I could, but then I thought maybe we were actually supposed to meet at the debate. I was just headed there now.”

Something feels wrong about this. It’s not like Rose to blow off plans. Maybe with me, since she hates me now, but not with perfect Noah.