Nate finally let go of Logan once he got what he wanted. It had been difficult to type his number into Nate’s phone when Nate was distracting him, but now that he’d entered it, Logan shoved the man away.

Nate pouted. “You’re an asshole.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

“You haven’t changed,” Nate said, straightening. “I was hoping—no. Ugh. I guess I thought you would make it out. You were always trying, you know? Even when the world was beating you down. But you’re proud, right? You got out of Hopptide!”

Logan just stared. 

“I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of. It’s just…something you do.”

Nate sighed. “You’ve got to be proud. That’s all we can do. You’ve got to be proud of your life.”

Logan didn’t remember hitting the water. One second he was falling and then the next he was lifting himself out of the river. He shivered as he crawled out onto the bank, using the large rocks as leverage. His mind was hazy as if he’d gotten high. 

He coughed and water spewed from his mouth. Strands of his hair stuck to his face, wrapped around him like it was trying to strangle him. He wiped the strands away, wondering when his hair had gotten so long. 

The fall. It must be messing with my head.

That was all the explanation he could come up with. This had to be some kind of miracle. How the hell did he survive a drop like that? 

He looked behind him and gawked at the fact that he was still next to the bridge. How was that possible? The current should have dragged his body a mile or two.

That’s when he noticed the river wasn’t as strong as it had been. It was still, an almost peaceful sight. And it wasn’t as flooded either. It was about half its size.

Logan paused. Water dripped in his face. He spat as some of it got onto his lip. The more he looked at the river the more uneasy he became. He held his stomach and slowly, cautiously, turned around. 

The road was the same. The trees looked the same, but he couldn’t really tell because he hadn’t been paying attention before. 

He staggered on his feet, leaving a trail of wet footprints. Every time he moved, more of his stupid hair kept ending up in his face.

He swatted the ends like they were actual bugs crawling on him. “Goddammit!”

The anger surged, caused by so many things. First because he’d tried to kill himself and he failed. Like he always did. As if he couldn’t be more useless. But secondly because he was now soaking wet and he’d have to walk back to his car. 

He hated being cold and he especially hated being wet. 

This anger though wasn’t like he was used to quelling. It happened too quickly and it muddied his mind. He stopped, this time even more confused as to what was happening to him. As he looked down at his hands, he noticed they didn’t look so rough.

“What the hell is going on?”

He peered at his hands, examining in such a way that if someone were to see him they’d think he was on drugs. Which he didn’t think was too much of a stretch. Was it too crazy to think his last cigarette had been laced?

The more he looked at his hands, the more he noticed the differences in his body. Namely, the scars on his arms. Or, well, the scars that should have been on his arms. 

His ears started ringing. His heart thumped against his ribs. His lungs were squeezed tight. Altogether, they put an emotion in him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid: absolute fear.

Logan ran.

His feet started moving and fast. Across the bridge, down the street, and even when he couldn’t actually breathe anymore.

Even then, he kept going. His pace was barely more than a jog when he realized that he’d ran the wrong way. But this would still take him into town. He needed to see a human face right now. He just needed to hear a person. Just only to know that he wasn’t going insane.

And he did start to hear voice. 

He’d ran so far he’d passed the fields behind the high school and was coming upon the school grounds. The closer he got, the more distinct the voices became. He still couldn’t make out clearly what they were saying, but by the tones in their voice, this was an argument. One that was escalating to violence.

Though he was soaking wet and didn’t want to have to deal with a fight, he was still reeling and he didn’t care if he ended up in this mess too. 

His panting slowed as he caught his breath. He walked closer to the voices which were by the fences that caged in the high school. By the looks of it, these were teenagers. 

That became more apparent as he got to the edge of the road and looked down into the large ditch created by the steep hill. He was about to yell at them just so they would scurry, but he froze with the words stuck in his throat.

“Stop! Give it back!”

A tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes were the first things Logan locked on. Dark hair, the deepest black, contrasted against pale skin. His eyes…Logan couldn’t see them from here, but he knew they were green. He’d looked into them daily, frequently, and had done so for over twelve years. Each time, increasingly scared, and eventually, broken. 

It had been that ever changing gaze that Logan had relished in.

Dakota. He was here. He was down there. 

Alive. 

Logan’s hands shook. He became more off-kilter than before. His eyesight was shaky as he stared at Dakota, realizing that this wasn’t some dream. This was real. He didn’t know how, but it was.

“Oh, you want it back?” 

Logan snapped back out of his thoughts. The reeling fact that Dakota was alive made him forget what situation he’d stumbled upon. He hadn’t looked too closely at the others who were harassing Dakota, but now that he did, he was startled to find that he knew them. 

Nate laughed and egged on the other boy who was holding a painting of Dakota’s. 

“See if you can break it over your knee!”

The one holding the painting, and grinned menacingly, was Matthew. His slicked back hair was unmistakable. 

“No!” Dakota lashed out at Matthew who was shorter than him. If it was just height that set them apart, Dakota might have had a hand over him, but Matthew was a hardened wrestler who could withstand more than his weight. 

Matthew turned and tossed the painting to Nate who fumbled it. Dakota’s attention was averted as he followed his painting. Matthew slammed into Dakota, knocking the taller boy to the ground. 

Nate was still laughing as he picked the painting off the ground. 

This whole time the back had been facing Logan. But as Nate picked it up, the frontside of the painting faced Logan, revealing one last piece to this mind-fuck puzzle.

An angel looked upon Logan. Her face was streaked with dirt after the scuffle, but her beauty was not diminished. It was her portrait that made Logan finally realize what had happened.

For the last time he’d seen her, he’d killed her by slashing a knife through her face. 

That had been ten years ago.

Matthew kicked Dakota in the gut and then spit in his face when he tried to turn over. “Fucking cry baby. Go tell your parents, you pussy.”

Nate propped the painting on the ground and held it firmly with his hand. He lifted his leg and went to slam his foot through the canvas. 

Logan, still soaking wet, tackled Nate to the ground. 

“What the fuck?” Matthew turned.

Nate groaned, writhing on the ground as he clutched his shoulder. Logan got up, holding the painting as if it were a bomb and the most precious thing in the world. He faced the angel away, fearful of her gaze as if she might come and get him.

Matthew caught one look at Logan and smiled. “Yo, where were you?”

Nate, from the ground, yelled, “Dude, what the fuck? You know spleen ruptures run in my family!”

Logan ignored both of them. He walked past Matthew and toward Dakota who was still on the ground. He went still when he heard Logan coming up from behind him. 

“Uh, Logan? Why are you wet?” Nate asked. 

Dakota, knowing what usually happened when Logan showed up, scrambled to get off the ground. His long legs were like slippery spaghetti. They moved, but they weren’t strong enough to get him off the ground. 

Logan grabbed Dakota and hauled him up. He pressed his forehead to Dakota’s temple.

“Run.”

Dakota didn’t. He was frozen. Logan pushed him and shoved him. 

Matthew watched them, arms crossed, curious at first. “Hey. Don’t give him any ideas.”

Thinking he wasn’t running because of the painting, Logan gave it to him, but he still didn’t run. 

Behind them, Matthew was becoming irritated. Logan could feel it. He knew how this played out. 

So, he did what he hoped would work, he grabbed Dakota’s hand, and started running—pulling Dakota right along with him.