Alex gazes at the wide, innocent eyes staring back at her. A classroom full of silent 7 and 8-year-olds, each displaying varying degrees of apprehension. She catches a child whimpering most likely in abject fear, and begins to regret her decision to make an appearance.

  A boy at the back, braver than the rest, raises his hand—his fingers trembling slightly.

  “Yes?”

  He swallows hard. “She… killed them?”

  Alex frowns. “Yes, I did say that.”

  The room shifts uneasily. The boy’s small fists clench. “But couldn’t they just talk about it?” His voice wavers, but he presses on. “My mom says talking about a problem is always better than fighting.” His spine straightens, conviction settling into his face. She can already tell he’s a disagreement away from a frustrated foot stomp.

  “Obviously, she tried to talk, but the man wouldn’t listen—”

  “He could have tried harder!” The outburst comes from another child, a tiny thing nearly a head shorter than the rest. And there the stomp was.

  Alex narrows her eyes. “You didn’t raise your hand.”

  The girl’s arm shoots up instantly, her expression defiant. Alex might admire the determination if she didn’t find her age group entirely insufferable.

  “What is it?” she sighs.

  “I don’t like this story,” Tiny declares, sniffling. “It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

  A nerve in Alex’s temple twitches. She takes a slow, measured breath, She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that insulting a child would most definitely not be well-received.

  “It’s a tragedy,” she says, as patiently as she can. “It’s not supposed to have a happy ending.”

  A hand flies up before she’s even finished speaking.

  “What now?”

  This child has to temporarily relieve his mouth of his thumb to speak. “This story sucks.”

  Alex’s fingers twitch. Fortunately, Thumbsucker's opinion didn't matter. “It’s a best-seller,” she replies coolly.

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be,” Child number 1, the most courageous of the bunch retorts, returning to the conversation. Alex narrows her eyes at him, mouth opening to comment on his crooked milk teeth.

  “Alright, children! Why don’t we all clap for Alex’s wonderful story?” The teacher interjects with impeccable timing, her voice unnaturally high-pitched.

  Only three children clap–One who, for all intents and purposes, was asleep up until 10 seconds ago, knowing nothing of the read.

  The teacher gives Alex an apologetic smile before pivoting back to her class. “Let’s all turn to page four in our coloring books and color the dinosaur.”

  Alex wastes no time making her escape.

  The teacher chases after her, breathless. “I—I’m so sorry about all of that.”

  Alex stops in the garish hallway, its aggressively colorful walls a nauseating offense to her eyes.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” she lies. It was, in fact, not fine. It was infuriating. But the poor woman seemed out of her depth already.

  “Children,” Alex says through grit teeth. “You learn to love them.”

  The teacher gives a weak, uncertain nod before gesturing toward the classroom door.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “I should get back,” she says. “They can’t be by themselves for more than twelve seconds.”

  Alex nods. “Otherwise, they’d tear the place apart.”

  “No, actually, it’s school policy.”

  “Ah.”

  “Also, they’d tear the place apart.” She has the audacity to chuckle at her joke.

  Alex raises an unimpressed eyebrow, her face set in a carefully crafted expression of indifference.

  “…Yeah,” the teacher mutters awkwardly before retreating.

  She steps outside, immediately cringing at a billboard movie poster she sees..

  ‘THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE OTHERWORLDLY,’ it reads.

  The actors on the poster wearing absurd expressions—an exaggerated parody of her book on display right across from the school entrance.

  She stares hard at the poster, willing it to suddenly burst into flames when her phone rings.

  She digs through her many jacket pockets, cursing under her breath when she drops her book. She finally retrieves the phone from her inner pocket, winces at the caller ID, and answers.

  “Shit.”

  “No, but close enough. It’s Chris,” comes the dry response.

  Self-deprecation. He was definitely angry.

  She pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Chris, I swear I lost track of time.”

  “I figured that out when you didn’t show up thirty minutes ago, like you promised.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She bends to retrieve her book. “I had this reading at a school where my book got shredded by a bunch of second graders.”

  A camera flash goes off beside her, causing her to startle. She turns toward the source and shoots the paparazzi an unmistakably wilting look.

  “Do you mind?” She asks, and the photographer scurries away.

  “Of course I mind, Alex. I’ve been standing here for half an hour!” Chris’s voice rises.

  “I’m heading straight to you right now. Thirty minutes, max.” She glances at her watch while walking through the parking lot.

  “So your plan is to keep me waiting the full hour?” He presses. “Is this like the time—”

  She wedges the phone between her shoulder and ear, muffling what is sure to be another long-winded rant about some imagined injustice. Storing her book under her arm, she rifles through her pockets again, finally retrieving her car keys.

  “Chris, I checked those bottles myself,” she interrupts. “Nobody added water to your vintage wine collection.”

  Chris sputters. “How would you know? You never tasted them!”

  “I didn’t need to taste them to know what vintage wine looks like.”

  “I don't care what, it tasted off to me. Alex, if you’re not here in thirty minutes—”

  “I’m standing right in front of my car.” She jingles her keys near the microphone for emphasis. “Now, if you’d just hang up so I can drive—”

  “Enough talking. Hang up so you can drive,” Chris cuts in.

  Alex exhales sharply. “Of course.”

  “Thirty minutes,” he repeats ominously.

  The call disconnects.

  She tosses her phone back into her pocket, yanks the car door open, and drives away.

  Sometime before the Present …

  Alex walks down a street, hands buried deep in the pockets of her thick jacket, a feeble defense against the biting cold. It isn't snowing at the moment, but the heavy mounds of the white substance along the sidewalk serve as a stark reminder of the previous night’s blizzard.

  She slows to a stop in front of a small diner, her eyes narrowing against the pulsing neon sign casting an eerie glow on the pavement. Inside, a middle-aged couple sits close, their hands brushing, their laughter soft but evident. For people their age, they seem deeply in love, she muses.

  Lingering for only a moment longer, she turns away, resuming her walk. She’s barely five steps from where she stood when the couple exits the cheap diner, stepping into a contrastingly sleek, luxury car that hums to life and pulls onto the road. She watches it go with a snort. Snobs.

  Minutes later, Alex finds herself standing in the middle of the deserted street, her head tilted back, gaze fixed on the full moon hanging heavy in the sky. A peaceful moment—shattered by the sudden wail of sirens. One. Two. Three. An awful lot, whip past her, lights flashing, all heading in the same direction.

  Curious, she steps into a nearby convenience store, drawn toward the wall of televisions broadcasting the national news. The second she sees the footage, she stops cold.

  The screen flickers between images of thick smoke and flashing emergency lights. A car sits perilously on a crooked edge below a bridge, firefighters battling the flames licking at a nearby tanker's undercarriage. The tanker sits wrecked against the bridge’s side, its twisted metal frame a testament to the failed attempt at regaining control before the impact. Recognition flickers across her face, on clearer view of the car. The couple from the diner.

  “… The passengers have been identified as tech billionaire Chris Jordan and his wife, Lilian…” the newscaster drones, voice detached, clinical.

  Alex exhales slowly. Her mind whirls, an internal war raging—one that lasts longer than she cares to admit. Then, without another thought, she steps back outside, turning in the opposite direction. She pauses abruptly after barely five steps, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes, releases a frustrated groan.

  “What are you doing, Alex?” she mutters, as if expecting an answer.

  She exhales sharply, shoulders setting with resolve. Best to do this before she started to weigh the pros and cons.

  With a final breath, she takes off—sprinting toward the accident.