Page 159 of Bitter’s Sweet

Not here.

Not while festival lights blink over my head and strangers laugh twenty feet away.

“I want to go back to school.”

“I’m coming.”

“I know.”

That is all I have energy to fight.

Mercy slips beside me without touching, close enough that I know she is there.

We walk.

The carnival keeps living around me because the world has terrible manners. Someone has restarted coffin race practice even though the actual races are already over, because apparently Grave Prowlers consider schedules suggestions once alcohol gets involved. Boogie is arguing with a tourist over whether a femur counts as carry-on luggage. Mourning and Vesper have somehow added DIVORCE PREDICTIONS to their sign.

Sheriff crows.

Of course he fucking does.

“Not now,” I whisper.

Mercy hears. “You tell that chicken.”

My chest aches so badly it should show through my shirt.

We make it through the School of the Dead doors before the first tear falls.

I wipe it away immediately.

Mercy locks the door behind us.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You're about to.”

“No.”

Her voice is gentler than that word has any right to be.

I look at her.

She points toward the little staff room behind her office.

“Go sit.”

“I don't want to sit.”

“Fine. Pace.”

“I don't want to pace.”

“Throw something cheap.”

Despite myself, a broken little laugh escapes me.