ALL SAINTS SCHOOL
SUNDAY, 11:04 P.M.
IN DARKNESS, LANE STARED at the whitewashed ceiling. Sweat ran cold on his ribs. The phone Joe Faroe had given him was under his pillow, along with an alarm clock Lane didn’t think he would need anytime in the next century.
He was so wide awake his eyeballs burned.
He told himself he wasn’t going to check the clock under his pillow again. But he did.
About two hours until Faroe called.
If he called.
Call me, he prayed silently. I’m going postal here in the dark, thinking about-
I won’t think about it.
Won’t.
Won’t.
Won’t.
His silent chant kept time with the waves piling against the beach, chubasco waves shouting the storm to come.
He hoped the tropical fury would wipe out the school.
Cigarette smoke and something sharper, more chemical, slid through the open window. The guards were just outside, laughing and talking among themselves.
Taking bets on whether Lane would survive the coming day.
Call me. Please!