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‘What was that about?’ Garovel asked, floating closer. ‘You can’t even talk to a girl? You do remember only needing one hand to subdue a serial killer, right? Did that do nothing for your self-esteem?’

‘No, that’s not what that was. She’s... I mean... I don’t... It’s because she’s from the carpentry club and... I... ’

‘Hmm? You have a history with her?’

Hector tilted his brow at the reaper. ‘You... don’t already know?’

Garovel merely shook his head.

‘I thought you knew everything about me...’

‘I occasionally followed you around a bit over the course of seven months. I don’t know your entire life story.’

‘R-right...’ Hector occupied himself with the stain on his shirt. The slash of red reminded him of the bloodied shirt he trashed the night before.

‘So? Who is she to you, then?’

He glanced in the direction she had gone and saw her eating with a bunch of other students. ‘I was almost part of that group,’ he said. ‘We were... we were almost friends, I guess...’

Garovel followed him back to his table, phasing through a passing lacrosse player. ‘I take it things didn’t end very well.’

Hector didn’t answer.

‘Tell me what happened.’

He sighed and grabbed his fork. ‘Why?’

‘Do you remember what I said before? You would help me, and I would help you.’

‘Thanks, but... there’s nothing to help with...’

‘Even so, I’d like to know more about you.’

A wash of gratitude ran through him like a shiver, and Hector hid his face downward, as if his food could be so utterly fascinating. For an incredible moment, he thought he might actually cry, which only made him flush with embarrassment. He wished he could tell Garovel how much those words just now had meant to him, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t know what was stopping him, and he hated whatever it was, but he just couldn’t.