I stepped out of the school clinic and let the door swing shut behind me. For a second, I just stood there in the hallway, staring blankly. My jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt, and my hands were still curled into fists from carrying her. I dragged one hand down my face and exhaled sharply.
Students moved past me in slow currents, whispering and glancing my way. I knew what I probably looked like—my hair disheveled from running my hands through it too many times, the sleeves of my black henley pushed up unevenly, and my knuckles faintly red from clenching and unclenching. My eyes burned, not from tears, but from rage.
Someone had tampered with her shoe.
The image replayed in my mind—Zoe falling, the sound of her heel hitting the polished floor, the way her face twisted in pain.
"Break a leg."
The words tasted like acid now.
