Alex Scott sits at his desk in his world history class, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the fake wood. He usually pays attention in this class. History is stories, and buried in the dates and names and other trivia are people—just regular people—doing extraordinary things. Alex often wonders if he’ll ever do something significant enough that people will remember it hundreds of years in the future. He knows the odds of that are so low they barely count at all, but he likes to pretend sometimes that he could be capable of changing the world for the better.
	But today his thoughts aren’t with the lesson Mrs. Hampton is giving. His stomach has been twisting itself into tighter and tighter knots since this morning, and by now it’s getting kind of hard to breathe.
	Today, Alex’s mother is coming home. Or she’s supposed to be. The past three times she’s promised to come back and try to talk things out with Alex’s dad, she hasn’t shown up. Each time she’d canceled, she’d had a different excuse. The first time she’d called his dad, Alex had snuck down the stairs and stood in the hallway to listen. When she explained that Alex’s sister Lilly needed her and she couldn’t leave the older girl by herself right now, it stung Alex more than he’d like to admit. It felt like she was putting her older daughter over her younger son. An older daughter who also refused to talk to Alex. 
	Though maybe he deserved that from both of them. 
	Alex isn’t sure if he wants to see her again—he might manage to screw things up even more. But the anxiety is killing him and he wants to get it over with.
	The bell rings, jolting Alex out of his thoughts so sharply that he jumps, hitting his knee against the bottom of the desk and losing his grip on the pencil. It lands under the desk. He bends down and retrieves it, feeling sick. It takes him several minutes longer than usual to pack his notes up into his backpack. The wane smile he gives Mrs. Hampton as he walks out the door takes about as much effort as rolling a boulder up a steep hill. She looks like she’s going to ask, “Are you okay, Alex?” like she does sometimes when he doesn’t participate in class, so he walks faster and forces another smile. He doesn’t want to talk to her. Not today. Alex hates it when people worry about him. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t think he deserves it. 
	Once he’s out of the building, Alex looks up at the clear sky and lifts a hand to shield his face from the bright sunlight. It’s supposed to rain today, but it doesn’t look like it will. Clear skies are supposed to be good, sure, but Alex likes the rain. And anyway, good for who? The plants would appreciate the rain. It’s all just a matter of perspective. 
	He taps his fingers against the side of his leg as he walks, unable to keep them still. He should stop at the store before he gets home. His dad asked this morning if Alex would pick up a few things before his mom showed up. If she shows up at all. At least it’ll give him a chance to try and settle his nerves. 
	The chime on the door rings as he enters the market. The cashier gives him a nod from the counter: Alex nods and tries to smile back, but it comes out more like a grimace. As he heads for the refrigerated aisle to pick out some milk and eggs, a familiar smell drifts through the air from somewhere to his left. It’s coming from a table stacked with pies: cherry, lemon, and apple too. Alex frowns and walks over, picking up one of the apple ones. 
	Memories of his mother and older sister, crowding up the kitchen and laughing, flood his mind. He’s nine again, his hands covered in flour and butter, trying to stir the lumpy dough with a large wooden spoon. His mother tosses together apples and cinnamon and Lilly does the dishes in the sink behind them. Alex’s dad walks in the room, eyes shining and happier than Alex has seen him in a long time, a tiny, crying bundle cradled in his arms--
	Alex shakes his head, stopping the memory there. He can’t think about that yet, at least not until he sees his mother. If he sees her. But just in case, he adds the pie to his basket. He pays for the food, packs it into his backpack, and heads out the door.
	Red and blue lights flash down the sidewalk on the way home, an orange-and-white striped barricade fencing off the walkway. There’s a different way he can go, but—oh, it’s not that hard. He won’t look at it. 
	But when he turns the corner before the playground, he can’t help but stare. The equipment is shiny, new, and reminds him that it’s been a few years since he walked home this way. He walks at the edge of the grass and cranes his neck to glimpse the basketball court. It hasn’t changed—the tarmac’s still cracking, the paint on the rackets rubbing off. Alex even imagines a tiny pink bow, stranded in the middle of the faded tarmac, glinting softly in the sunlight. 
	And suddenly he can’t look anymore. He can’t go this way again. Never, never again. He hunches his shoulders, pulling his backpack higher by the straps, and sprints down the rest of the street. 
	His foot snags on a crack and Alex barely has time to fling his hands out in front of his body to break his fall. His knees smart from scrapes and the palms of his hands sting. A car skids somewhere far away from the playground, cutting into the relative quiet. He curls into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. Something crinkles in the pocket of his jacket. It’s an envelope. Alex pulls it out, running a shaky finger across the seal at the top. Alex Scott is written in neat cursive across the front. Desperate for something to distract him from his memories of the playground, Alex runs a fingernail through the top of the envelope, ripping it open. He crosses his legs on the sidewalk and lets the paper fall open into his lap. 

Hello Alex,

My name is Mr. Lee. I don’t know if you remember, but we knew each other once, when you were very young. I’m going to assume that your parents have told you that you are adopted. I knew your birth parents. As of now, I do not know their fate.

	Alex’s fingers curl around the edges of the paper. Who is this Mr. Lee? His birth parents? Yes, Alex knows he’s adopted, just like his older sister Lilly. She’s his biological sister; his parents adopted them both through an agency when they were very young. Alex knows his birth parents didn’t want him, and he can’t say he’s surprised. He isn’t going to lie and say it doesn’t bother him, but he hasn’t thought about his birth parents since he was little. He never knew them, and he isn’t sure he would ever want to meet them. He has no memory of this Mr. Lee.
 
But I do know the fate of someone who was close to them, someone who blames himself for what he did to you and five other children like you. However much he believes that there is no way to right this wrong, a friend of his insists that he attempt to set things right, even if doing so would cause you more harm than good.
Please understand that I am sorry, excruciatingly so, for what is about to happen to you. I just need you to understand that I wanted no part in this: my hand has been forced.

Sincerely,
Mr. Lee

	For what is about to happen to me? That’s pretty ominous. And maybe a little threatening. Alex swallows, glancing back at the park and across the street, making sure no one is watching him. He starts to get up…but he can’t. Nausea roils up from the bottom of his stomach all the way to his throat. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to block out the too-bright light. His ears are ringing. The sidewalk falls out from beneath him, and he’s dumped into endless space.