I hate being punished. It’s one of the worst feelings on Earth, and though I don't think anyone likes it—other than weird sex stuff, probably— I especially hate it. Punishment is just a way of control. If someone doesn't like something you've done, they can get revenge by stealing your freedom and your peace and forcing you to engage in an activity—or a lack of one—that you would otherwise not want to. Consequences are a real pain in the dick.

“Gabriel?”

I looked up and caught the cool, gray eyes of Mrs. Dexter, the school guidance counselor. She was staring at me with concern, like always, and I rolled my eyes and leaned back in the overly-comfortable chair reserved for students. Few things boiled my backside more than being forced to sit in her office in the East Annex, listening to the clack of the grandfather clock in the corner, overwhelmed by the ever-present scent of clean leather upholstery and some other assaulting fragrance that reminded me of incense.

Her space seemed intentionally designed for tepidness. At least, I think that’s the word. It was filled with earthy tones like green and brown and despite it being sunny and hot as hell outside, it was a comfortable seventy-degrees in the office. Framed photographs of various landscapes had been placed along the walls, done in the artsy, cinematographer-style of lowered angles and unrealistic filters. The curtains were drawn on the large windows and I couldn’t help to think it was just so that she had an opportunity to bathe the room in the light from the strategically-placed lamps with ornate shades.

Everything was so… carefully interesting. It was the Starbucks of office spaces, to be sure, crafted to make it look more comfortable than it actually was, which I had to imagine was the hallmark of a sociopath. She was a counselor after all, so it made sense that everything needed to be so… perfectly acceptable.

“You’re not saying anything, Gabriel,” Mrs. Dexter prompted again in her irritatingly measured tone. “Do you need some time to sort your thoughts?”

“Obviously,” I hissed. “If I’m trying to sort my thoughts, don’t you think it’s stupid to ask if that’s what I’m trying to do?”

Jeeze, I thought, immediately regretting my outburst. I couldn’t help it. I’d never been good at containing my anger, even with the most mild of grievances. I hadn’t been raised that way. Roger would always tell me I needed to make sure the world knew I wouldn’t accept anything I was unsatisfied with and his word had always been law for me.

“I am only trying to get to the root of this issue, Gabriel,” Mrs. Dexter explained, still choosing the calm voice of a mediator. “Where is your hostility coming from?”

“I don’t know, Dexter,” I said. “Where did you get your degree, Trailer Toilet University?”

I smirked at what I thought of as wit, but Mrs. Dexter just held me with her sympathetic gaze. It was enough to make me want to puke.

“You’re mad at me, then?” she asked rhetorically.

“I’m not mad at anyone,” I explained in a pitch that gave away my lie. “I just don’t know why I’m stuck in this craft-store-decorated nightmare of an office listening to you ask me over and over how I’m feeling.”

Keep it together, I admonished myself, but I could already feel the frustration building. Everyone always seemed to misinterpret my words or actions—or just ignore them all together. Roger always said my temper was my greatest ally; that it would force others to take me seriously. But Uncle Luke told me it was my biggest obstacle, and if I wasn’t careful, it’d lead to a short life behind tall bars.

I’d liked Roger a lot more than my mother’s apathetic brother, so I tended toward bluster and grief. Back then, I’d thought only of my own pain and the losses I’d suffered. So much so that I rarely considered how it affected everyone around me. I actually believed I was entitled to my outbursts—especially when I failed to contain them. It was easier to say to myself that I had meant to be rude rather than admit there were some underlying factors.

I was a boy under duress. But that didn’t excuse being an obnoxious little shit.

“...sorry,” I was able to manage. I knew I had to be careful with people in positions of authority, however unrespectable they were in my eyes.

Mrs. Dexter gave me a small smile, arching her brow as if to indicate she understood and pitied me. That made me furious, and my apology dissolved in my own mind.

What right did she have to judge me? I’d seen her at Senorita Sabrosa a few months ago eating tacos with flour tortillas. Even more upsetting was watching as she picked pieces of cilantro out of her pico de gallo and balled them up in a napkin. What sort of untrustworthy monster didn’t like cilantro? The type that should not have been allowed to counsel high school students, at the very least. She probably also threw batteries at baby birds. Team Cilantro for life.

“You’re here because of what happened on Monday, Gabriel,” she soothed. “That’s also the reason why you’re talking to me, because it’s my job to try and understand wh—”

“Your job?!” I shouted suddenly, causing her to jump. I leaned forward in the chair and scowled.

Ah, shit. It’s happening. I’m about to make an ass out of myself.

I tried to get a handle on the hard knot of anger threatening to burst apart within my chest—I really did. But, just like always, the dizzying sense of depersonalization unfurled within my brain and my uncomfortable aggression uncorked.

“You’re not a real therapist, otherwise I’m sure you’d make people call you Doctor Dexter. You’re just some wannabe who wasn’t able to fix her own problems, so instead, you try to fuck with teenager’s brains to make yourself feel better!”

There was a long silence as Mrs. Dexter seemed to attempt to get the mettle of me. Is it metal? Meddle…?

I’m not a word genius.

She wasn’t glaring at me, just looking, like she was trying hard to figure me out. As if I was some animal at the zoo that she was interested to see do something weird.

“Gabriel,” she said after a moment, brushing a strand of long gray hair out of her face. “You have every right to express yourself in whatever way you see fit, but I would personally prefer if you didn’t use the ‘f’ word when referring to me or my actions. I am here to help you—despite what you may think— but I have to request that you respect my preferences.”

It was too late. I knew I was about to say something that I would regret. I just didn’t know at the time how much I’d actually be affected by my next two sentences.

“Here’s some respect for you!” I declared, hopping up from my seat suddenly and flashing my middle finger a few inches from her face. “Fuck. Y—”

...so, that's how I ended up on a train.

I had chosen a seat near the back as that had seemed like the best spot to avoid most people. Being in the rear allowed me to make sure that no one was behind me, and I could keep my eyes on everyone I hated. And I hate most people. But, this instance was particularly bad because I had to be on this godforsaken metal tube with some of the worst kinds of people.

High school students.

I was also in high school, to be fair, but it didn't stop me from seeing the darkness in their motives. I mean, I knew how shitty I was to be around. I wouldn't hang out with me if you paid me fifty bucks, and I was normal. Not that other people thought I was normal.

If nothing else, it allotted me plenty of time to sit and stew over my embarrassing display in Mrs. Dexter’s office.

My little tantrum.

I’m sure I came across as your average, too-edgy-for-me, incel-leaning dipshit, but I didn’t see myself that way. Not then. If you had called me that, I’d have laughed in your face and brazenly quoted a bumper sticker I’d seen as a kid, “I hate everyone equally.” For the young Gabriel Skelter--Gabe, if ya nasty--that generic, baby boomerish attempt at humor summed up what I thought was important to let people know. Not only was I a self-righteous crum, but I believed I was something of an underappreciated asshole--a Dr. House-type, if you will. But I was closer to a “Dr. Dipshit '' with an inability to pin the lid on my fits of angsty, teenage brattiness.

But, things have changed now.

If I could go back in time, I would have sat down next to that version of me and given myself such a slap. I had no clue what was going to transpire, the true obstacles and challenges. Nor the triumphs I had in store for me. Things were about to get bumpy, and if I’d only known…

Well, enough of that. I can’t change what happened, so I may as well relay it as it went down.

Even then, scanning the occupants of the packed train, I could see the looks.

Abbie Carlson, for one, caught me staring at her and raised a manicured eyebrow before wrinkling her nose at me and turning away in a dramatic flourish of red hair.

Stupid Abbie. It's not like I was paying her any attention anyway—she wasn't even that pretty. Kind of arrogant—if you ask me— to think that just because the short, fat detention-magnet was looking in her direction that… well, maybe she had a reason to believe that. If I looked like her, and someone like me was glancing my way, I’d probably get huffy as well.

Also, I had spray-painted an ejaculating wiener on the hood of her boyfriend's car, so it's possible this was a much more nuanced issue.

If I was being honest, I was very attracted to her. My personality back then wouldn’t allow me any chance of genuine emotions or feelings because I was so wrapped up in my own insecurities in how others perceived me.

The aforementioned boyfriend wasn't around for this excursion, but his best friends Matt Marshall and Nick Harmon were. They had spent the whole time chatting with Abbie and the other kids on the train while also looking in my direction and laughing. They could go right ahead, though, because I'd get my revenge anyway. Matt's mom worked at the same grocery store as my aunt, so I could sneak in and fill her locker with... bees or something—I was still workshopping that, actually.

Nick lived a few houses away from me, and I still knew the combination to his dad's garage from when we were kids. I'm sure Mr. Harmon would hate to wake up to his brand-new riding lawn mower missing the blades or wheels. That would show Nick not only for laughing, but also for turning on me once we got to high school. It wasn't my fault that I wasn't interested in sports like he was, or that I was about as smooth of a talker as a sandpaper-tongued telemarketer. Those weren't my strengths, but I still had a mile-wide chip on my shoulder that he'd seemed to completely forget our friendship.

I seethed in my seat like a petulant child and slipped my earbuds in, hoping that the opening chuggy goodness of Gojira's Silvera could quell the rage threatening to boil over.

As I sat ruminating on the various ways I could make my classmates' lives a living hell, a person in front of me turned. A thin, pale face with a cruel-looking eyebrow scar peered at me over the back of the seat.

"You alright, Gabe?" Mike Cutsford asked in a high voice.

"Shut up and turn back around, dumbass," I growled.

Mike was probably the only person on this train that was happy I was here considering he'd be the one everyone would be making fun of and giving snobby looks to otherwise. I could only see the top of his face and the tangles of scraggly blond hair, but I knew his heavily-scarred jaw and nose lurked below the edge of the seat as he stared at me.

"Damn, okay," Mike said, narrowing his brows. "I was just checking on you. Why are you even on this trip if you don't want to be here? Seems like a weird thing to do."

"You're one to talk, Cutsface," I said, using the nickname that seemed so popular where Mike was concerned. "You're the weirdest kid I've ever met."

The taunt seemed to work, and Mike sighed and turned back around, slumping in his seat.

Ah, shit, I thought. I hadn't meant to make Mike feel bad; he was just making a vain attempt to gauge my threat level. But, I thought, he should have minded his own business and definitely not have interrupted me when I had homicidal ideation about kicking Nick out of the door of the speeding train. I sighed and pulled my earbuds out, attempting to extend an olive branch—or whatever you called it.

Man, I was ten shades of awful. The only thing more crippling than my objectively hilarious sense of idiotic arrogance was my own self hatred.

"Mrs. Dexter made me," I said, my voice a bit softer so that Mike would know I wasn't planning on attacking him. I saw him move ever-so slightly, turning his head toward me but didn't say anything.

"She said it would do me some good to take part in an educational adventure. According to her, the teamwork involved will help me sort out some of my personality issues. It was either this or military school."

Mike shifted in his seat so that I could see his left eye.

"Military school? Those are private institutions now. You can’t just send kids there anymore."

"Well, maybe it's JobEd," I admitted. JobEd was where the bad kids and dropouts had to go usually. The facility was some government-sponsored program to train young people to build skills so they could land a miserable minimum-wage gig for the rest of their lives, generally understanding it would be after they got out of juvenile detention or jail. JobEd also required folks to stay in barracks and work without pay during their time as its whole aim was teaching people how to do one specific kind of job under a strict tutelage of discipline. To me, it sounded as appetizing as a bag of diarrhea.

Roger had gone there, I thought, suddenly. It was intrusive, but I banished it from my brain. Not a good time to be thinking about that.

"Ah," Mike finally said carefully. I could imagine he was being cautious with his responses to me because he didn't want to unlock my anger.

Smart, I thought.

God, I was so insufferable.

"So, was this because of the fire?" He asked carefully.

I winced.

"Yeah, probably. I dunno, maybe she's just a crackhead," I said with a shrug.

It had definitely been because of the fire. It sounded worse than it was, though. The way everyone talked about it, you'd think I burned down the auditorium or something. All I'd done was light every third-floor restroom garbage aflame… and a couple of bags of dirty gym clothes. I didn't know they'd burn that much. The sprinklers had gone off in the middle of the pep rally, and I found myself dragged out of the school in handcuffs. Fortunately, my uncle Luke was a good lawyer, or maybe just annoying enough to keep me out of serious trouble. This field trip was the compromise.

"She seems pretty nice to me,” Mike said.

"Well, she's not nice, Cutsford," I said. "She's a gigantic prick, and if she thinks I'm going to learn anything from this trip, she's dead wrong. Even if I accidentally start to educate myself, I will make sure I smash my head with a rock so that I can forget."

"That's… pretty spiteful," Mike said, now fully facing me. "You might like it, though? This is my third year going, and I always enjoy it."

"Yeah, I'll bet you're popping like ten boners over it," I said with a huff. "Listen, Mike. I'm sure for you and your squadron of locker jockeys, this is like seeing The Black Dahlia Murder in concert, but for normal people, walking around in nature and learning about the dumbass settlers for two days is hell on earth."

Mike looked around the train and smiled.

"I dunno, dude. It sure seems like there’s a lot of happy people," he said. "You might be the only normal one here, then."

"That goes without saying," I said… anyway. "But, they're only having fun because they can sneak off and drink shitty beer or give each other handjobs. Plus, Eldon is offering extra credit for his class, so I’m pretty sure that's the real reason anyone even wanted to come."

"Well, I’ll still enjoy it,” Mike said. “The historically-accurate replica settlement is a feat to behold. They even have a hand-dug well with a crank to get water.”

"Feat to behold?" I razzed. "Listen to yourself. Who talks like that? Listen, no one wants to jerk off a prehistoric puddle to get a cup of mud. This is why you get your ass beat all the time, Cutsford."

Mike narrowed his eyes again, but then relaxed them and shrugged.

"Maybe," he said. "But if that's my reason, what's your excuse?"

I scowled. What did he know? Sure, I'd been in a few fights in the past. Well, more than a few, but I didn't think anyone would say I lost them. I just... came out second best. Of two participants.

I guess I did have a problem with people getting confrontational, whether it was pushing me, tripping me in the hallways, or throwing things at me… on occasion. Last week Trey Weeks hit me in the head with a football while I was walking by the track field. I had gotten mad, but it only accomplished making people laugh. Being a five-foot-six, two-hundred-seventy-pound eighteen-year-old with rage issues only seemed to encourage them.

"Anyway, this whole thing is stupid," I said. "Don't think I'm going to have some breakthrough of enjoyment and join Science Club, or whatever, with you afterward."

"I'm not in the Science Club," Mike corrected with a smile. "Is that even a thing?"

"You'd know," I said stupidly.

“You’re wrong, anyhow,” Mike said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘you’re wrong,’” Mike clarified, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m never wrong,” I explained. “...about what, though?”

“About my friends enjoying this,” he whispered. “Logan and Noah didn’t want to come, they said it was lame.”

“Ah, well, sounds like they are smarter than you,” I said. “Guess they get to be the presidents of Science Club.”

I put my earbuds back in, hoping that would indicate to Mike that our conversation was over. I closed my eyes, feeling exhausted, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep while we traveled. I had a terrible time sleeping pretty much always.

Well, I suppose that wasn’t exactly true, was it? I didn’t mind sleeping. It was waking up that I hated. Awakening to the realization that you had to deal with the same shitty life, terrible people, and tedious everyday activities was not worth getting out of bed for. The dread always seemed worse in the morning. For that exact reason, I usually chose to stay up late into the night, only falling asleep when my body physically could not handle the strain of being awake any longer.

Sometimes I even went without sleep for days on end. I had a wicked case of insomnia, and it didn't seem to matter what I did, I just couldn't kick the habit.

To combat it, I’d been prescribed every sleeping aid on the planet in my eighteen years of life, but nothing helped. My mind seemed to rebel against sleep because of my hatred and disgust for beginning a new day.

I sighed, and straightened my back. Through the wails of heavy riffs blasting from my earbuds I glanced around the rest of the train.

It was a regular evening train full of people. The Early Settlers field trip participants only took up about half of the rickety car, while strangers occupied the remaining seats. Commuters, heading back to whatever awful lives they had waiting for them at home after a full day of work.

There were fifteen students from our school onboard, all seniors like I was supposed to be. I'd been held back once. Or twice. Who was counting? I could see a cluster of girls near the middle of the car: Hannah Rentz, Alexis Weber, Madison Edwards, and Emma Stokes. The girls were talking excitedly, taking pictures on their phones and immediately checking the results. Next to them was Mason Petersen, joking right alongside and gesturing theatrically with his long limbs. Beyond that were more students I didn't know that well. Probably some under-the-radar kids, though I'm sure they were dicks as well. Most of the kids at my school were dicks.

The last two students that I knew were Molly Thoms and Jando Guerrera. They were skaters and very likely stoners, and as far as kids at my school went, they were pretty alright. They weren't jerks to me, but that was because they weren't rude to anyone. I’d always reasoned that it had to be hard to summon the strength to bully someone when your every waking thought was enclosed in a cloud of euphoria. Molly was tall and lean, with long, straight brown hair covered by a black beanie. Jando, whose full name was Alejandro, was short and thin with closely-cropped dark curls. The two of them hung around with a group of other skaters and were often in trouble for using open-lunch to skate on school property or for bringing their boards with them into class. I could see they both had theirs with them now, hanging off the rear of their backpacks, and I chuckled. Mr. Eldon would have had a heart attack dealing with that.

Speaking of the piece of shit, Mr. Eldon was not far from the front of the train, lazing against his seat with his arms crossed, his red, mustachioed face drawn into a picture-perfect snooze. He was in his early fifties and was stocky with a moderate gut wedged into a sweater vest, and was, surprisingly, the chaperone and sponsor of the field trip. Being the American History teacher, Eldon had a vested interest in providing these sorts of outings because his classes were famously dull; and most students struggled to do well. It was the reason, in my mind, why he'd chosen to offer extra credit.

I was technically in his class, but Eldon was the type to never know for sure which students were actually present or not beyond seating charts, something he always mixed up between the seven classes he taught each day. Most of the time he wouldn’t even call roll, he’d just glance up and do a rough estimate for any empty seats. I’d figured out on my first day that it was nearly impossible to see several of the absent spaces from his desk and made sure to get myself assigned to one to take advantage of that fact, which meant I was usually as far away from his boring monotone as I could get. As best as I knew, I had perfect attendance in his seventh period this year, even the week I accidentally forgot to go to school.

I looked beyond Eldon's sleeping form to the rest of the passengers on the train. I saw a few men and women dressed in suits and blazers, and I couldn’t help but think they were probably rich assholes who worked in a bank, or on the top floor of a big building downtown where they ordered delivery for lunch every day that they only ate half of, and never tipped.

God, I hated wealthy people.

There was a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties sitting by herself on the left. She had a serious face and seemed like she was concentrating on a book she was reading, but I couldn’t see the title because she did that thing people do where they bend the cover back behind the binding. I wasn’t much into books, but it still seemed like a rude thing to do to one. The woman also had a raincoat folded up on her lap, which was odd, because it hadn’t rained, nor, I’m pretty sure, was that something on the forecast.

Nearby were a few older people in matching leisure clothing, and I got the impression they were part of some exercise club, and there were a couple of construction workers who sat quietly on their phones looking more than a little exhausted.

Further down were a couple of college-aged guys who wouldn't stop laughing at some stupid joke or another. They'd gotten up a couple of times to chat with the group of senior girls, but Mason, ever the watchful sheepdog, had shamed them into sitting back down.

"They're in high school!" Mason shouted, making sure everyone on the train heard. "They don't want your herpes!"

Even I had to laugh at that. I found Mason extremely rude, but he was that way with everyone, which was something of admirable quality. At best, he didn't pay me much mind—except the one time he had commented on my hoodie being "creepy goth shit." It had been an Infant Annihilator sweatshirt with a devil holding a severed torso, so it wasn't even really that far off, all things considered.

The college bros hadn't liked being made to look stupid by the fabulous high school boy. In response, they spent the next stretch of time glaring at Mason and muttering things amongst themselves.

I ignored them, continuing my perusal of the train car, noticing several other lone specters populated the seats, but they weren’t interesting enough for me to really pay attention to. I liked weirdness, or curiosities because those are what really stood out to me. Well, I suppose that is what stood out for most people. It just seemed painful and dull to focus my attention on a person in a boring pair of jeans and a solid-colored t-shirt rather than to size up someone who was obnoxious, or acting odd, or...

Near the front of the compartment was a beautiful woman with curly brown hair. She dressed almost elegantly; a long, flowing shawl with flowers patterned on the sheer fabric, and beneath that was a red silk shirt and black leggings that only went halfway past her calves—I think the style is called capri. She was looking at something in her hands that gave off a glow, and at first I thought it was her phone, but the light from it was… off. It was too strong, for one, and seemed to be shifting and swirling.

I didn't have much time beyond that for analysis because that's when the fight broke out.

The college dudes, getting bold, called out to Mason angrily.

"What the fuck did you just say, you fucking fairy?"

The train went silent. I snapped a look at Mike right in front of me, who tensed up. He had been on the receiving end of plenty of conflicts, so he tended to get a lot of anxiety over it, and seemed to have a pretty good idea when things were about to go south fast.

One of the bros, a meaty, muscular dude with short blond hair, stood up, puffing his chest out.

Obviously used to that sort of insult, Mason rolled his eyes and waved him away, seemingly unbothered by the explosion from the angry young man.

"I didn't say anything about you, Steroid Steve," he spat. "Don't you have anything better to do, like planning your next date rape?"

Steroid Steve's face went red, and he glared daggers at Mason.

"Fuck you, you gay bitch," he growled and marched toward Mason. The high schooler suddenly looked a little less confident. He didn't shirk away, but I could tell from the clench of his jaw that this hadn't gone how he thought it would. As miserable as I was back then, I absolutely despised people being bigotted. It was a very quick way for me to get protective over people I knew or, hell, didn’t know. Maybe it came with the territory of being made fun of for stuff I also couldn’t control? Looking back, my extremely volatile rebuke for intolerance was likely my only good quality at the time. That and my excellent taste in music, if I do say so myself.

Suddenly, Nick shot up and crossed the distance in a flash, putting himself between the two young men.

I thought about how different we'd turned out since we were children. It was a drastic contrast. At one time we'd been roughly the same height and weight, but after a certain point—seventh grade to be precise— I'd stopped growing. But Nick had continued to get bigger, losing the chubbiness he'd had and growing into a powerfully-built kid. Where I had remained stumpy and flabby, Nick was tall and muscular. The college bro seemed to pause as the high school senior approached.

"Woah, woah, woah," Nick said, a wide smile on his face and his hands up in a pacifying manner. "Let's all calm down here, guys. This is a small train. I know we've been on here for a while, and everyone's a little tired, so... maybe some things were said that probably weren't meant to be so harsh? Can we agree that it's possible this isn't the right time to have a disagreement?"

Nick had always been the peacemaker. I remembered several choice instances in our youth when he’d convinced people not to beat me bloody because of some insult I’d hurled their way. He had a way with words that had a positive effect on others, while mine tended to have the opposite. It was probably a contributing factor as to why people liked him a lot more than they ever would me. That, and it didn’t hurt that he was a star athlete.

But as Nick stood there, I couldn’t help but think that this time it didn't seem like his silver tongue would be as useful to him.

"Fuck you, Tyrone," Steroid Steve shouted. "Stay out of this unless you want to get your face punched in."

Woah.

Not only were these guys homophobic assholes, I thought, but they were also racist as hell.

So, they can multitask.

My hackles were raised and I immediately began to get a little hot under the collar. This was going to get so much worse before it was going to get better. I absently reached into my bag and grasped my secret weapon, my blood beginning to pump hard and fast as my anger began to boil over.

"Alright, friend," Nick was saying, nodding. "Things are getting a little aggressive. Let's all cool it."

I was confused. Why wasn't anyone else standing up to these douchebags? Being in high school, Nick shouldn't have been the only one with the balls to say something to them and try to put a stop to their dickheadery. I glanced at the actual adults that made up our population and scowled. They were all either watching with tense interest, or pretending they weren’t paying attention to avoid getting drawn into the conflict themselves.

Cowards. Fuck this. Guess it was just going to be me then?

I stood up, pulling the switchblade out of my bag and palming it for the moment.

"Dude, calm down," one of the other college guys said to their friend.

"Shut the hell up, Dalton!" Steroid Steve shouted at his friend. His neck bulged with clear signs of anger, and from my history of getting unnecessarily pissed off, I knew he was about five seconds from striking. "These dumbass high school bitches think they're tough. Talking shit and trying to fucking square up. They are about to find out how wrong and stupid they are."

"Listen, man—" Nick started, but that was the moment Steroid Steve struck. He swung wide and caught Nick in the mouth to an audible gasp from most of the train car. To Nick’s credit, he didn't fall, but he did look dazed and reached up to wipe his mouth. Steroid Steve suddenly shoved him, sending the boy tripping backward, and then turned and grabbed Mason by the shirt. That was when Nick returned the favor.

He struck the college bro so hard and fast that the man tumbled backward, crashing against the floor with a thud. Someone screamed and the other college guys, now angry, stood up to square off against Nick. That was too many dipshits ganging up on one person, and that wasn’t cool or fair in my eyes. When people were abusing their numbers like that, it had the effect of making me really mad.

I launched forward, brandishing the knife.

"Get the fuck back!" I shouted, holding the edge of the switchblade out menacingly and sidling up next to Nick. The college bros stopped where they were.

"What the hell, Gabe?" Nick demanded, seeming angry. "You brought a fucking knife on a field trip?"

"Yeah," I said, smirking and ignoring the horrified expression of everyone around me. “I thought it might add an element of excitement.”

Steroid Steve, now up again, frowned at Nick and then looked at me.

"We got a fat kid with a butter knife," he said to his friends with an evil smirk. "Probably has jelly all over it."

"Why don't you come over here and find out, dicks-for-brains," I spat. "Unless you're afraid I'll cut your tiny balls off."

I was fuming. I'd never been the best at controlling my temper, and now these guys were on my last nerve. I could feel the familiar cloud of rage obscuring my thoughts, and I knew that whatever was about to go down, I would... probably end up worse for wear. But I didn't care. I never cared.

"Gabe…" Nick breathed. "You should probably—"

Steroid Steve and his buddies all attacked at once. One of the larger men on the right went for my knife, trying to grab it away from me. I angrily stabbed forward, slicing open a massive cut on the backside of his hand. The man howled.

"Fat Frodo just cut my fucking hand open!"

There was a blur as the group of men suddenly rushed me, knocking the knife out of my grasp and me to the ground. I felt an instant blossom of intense pain as one of them struck me in the face, and another as a foot slammed down onto my stomach. The wind left me, and I was suddenly groaning on the floor of the train. I felt a kick and heard a crack as another foot connected with my ribs. I couldn't breathe, and I was in such intense pain that all I could do was lay there as the men pummeled me.

I heard Nick roar as he fought Steroid Steve. The bigger and older man put him in a headlock before tightening his arm around Nick’ neck. However, I didn’t get an opportunity to see what was next because another kick rocketed into my stomach, sending me sprawling.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

I was trying hard to gasp for air, and only barely succeeding because each breath was agony. I knew one of my ribs had to be broken, but I was so afraid of that possibility I tried to banish the thought from my mind.

I opened my eyes.

Everything was at a pause as the large college bros had stopped battling. They were frozen, staring at something to their right. I lifted myself as much as I was able, to see what they were looking at.

The woman with the raincoat was standing now. Her face was stormy, like a quiet and threatening thundercloud looming over everyone. In her hand was a pistol, and she had it leveled at the group of men.

"Sit down," she commanded sternly. I could tell from her voice that she was not the type to allow her deadly serious convictions to be ignored. Steroid Steve shook his head in contempt, raising an eyebrow as he sneered at the woman.

"What are you, a cop?"

"No," the woman said simply. "I'm not. Now sit."