"Gwen? You came to." The nurse's voice was all quick motions and delivery-room efficiency as a styrofoam lunch box slid onto the tray. She rapped the lid with a practiced finger and smiled without warmth. "Morning, Miss Gardner. You have an IV to your left. Don't pull it out." "I know," I said, because saying anything else would invite questions. My throat was dry. My head felt like I had slept inside someone else's story and woke up in the wrong chapter. "You don't remember?" The nurse glanced at the clipboard. "You fainted after the fall. The boy who knocked into you brought you in. Very polite boy." "Polite?" I blinked at the word. The nurse shrugged and rearranged the blanket under my chin. "Polite boys make for good witnesses," she said. "Name's Fionn Thompson, right? From Southbridge? He stayed until the ambulance—very responsible. You should be grateful." "Grateful," I echoed. The syllable tasted foreign and oddly useful. Footsteps in the hallway softened, then stopped by the door. The curtain pulled aside and a boy leaned in, holding a thermos and a paper bag like a guilty offering. "I'm so sorry," he said. He had hair that refused to obey gravity and eyes that looked tired as if someone had asked him to carry a night and he'd agreed. He put the thermos on the tray and set the bag down like it might escape. "It was my fault," he added