THE GLUCOSE

Three days before what would become the fateful PE session, I opened my personal locker in the changing room to get my backup glucose tube — the spare I always kept in case the one I carried on me was lost or damaged.

The locker was empty.

I stood frozen, checking every shelf, every old jacket pocket, but the backup tube was gone.

The lock was intact, no sign of tampering — which meant someone either had a key, or had watched closely enough to learn the combination I always used, my birthdate, which I’d once mentioned in passing in front of the class.

I reported it immediately to Dr. Hartley, requested a new tube from the medical office, and quietly changed my locker combination.

But what truly put me on guard was finding the missing backup tube two days later — lying discarded in the bin behind the sports building, its casing crushed, as if someone had deliberately thrown it away after taking it.

I photographed the evidence and sent it straight to Amelia.

“She’s testing the waters,” Amelia texted back, her fingers trembling on the screen as she typed.

“Trying to make sure I can’t bring a backup, so that next time, the tube I carry on me is the last one I have.”

I looked at the photo of the crushed tube in the bin, a cold feeling crawling down my spine — not fear of Rosalind, but the realisation of just how far she was willing to go to keep her “good person” mask intact.

The evening before PE, I sat in front of the mirror, taping a small note inside my jacket pocket myself — writing out Dr. Hartley’s and Amelia’s phone numbers clearly, in case I couldn’t speak for myself.

Amelia sat beside me, silently watching every motion.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” she asked, her voice unusually soft.

“I don’t get to choose whether Rosalind does something next,” I answered, folding the jacket neatly.

“I only get to choose how I prepare for it.”