“The paramedics are on their way,” someone says, and Zoey sits up, ignoring the voices that tell her to lie down again.
With a trembling hand, Zoey lightly touches the dark circle of blood that stains her shirt. Gripping the bottom of it, she lifts her shirt higher to reveal the smooth, unmarred skin of her abdomen.
Warning bells ring in my head and I step back, stumbling over my own feet. The sound of heavy boots coming down the hall rips me from my stupor, and with my head down, I flee the classroom, passing the paramedics who jog past, and the police who follow behind them.
The police are needed here, but the paramedics aren’t, not for Zoey.