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raised him, just as a voice bellowed above the crowed.
    “Kaine. Marshall.”
    Travis’s feet dropped quickly back onto the floor as Deagan released his Vulcan death grip. Mr. Thompson, the physics teacher, marched towards them. Deagan stepped back with a smug look on his face.
    “Well, what seems to be the problem here?” Mr. Thompson queried.
    “Nothing, sir, just spreading the love.”
    “Yes, it looked like that—get to my office.” He motioned to Deagan. Deagan turned, scuffing his feet as he ambled away, glancing over his shoulder only to offer Travis a final cold and menacing stare.
    Travis massaged his neck as the color in his face returned to normal. He could still feel the marks of where Deagan’s fingernails had scratched into his skin.
    Thompson turned back to Travis. “Marshall, you okay?” he asked, resting one hand on his shoulder.
    “Yeah,” he said, letting out a cough as he picked his bag up off the floor.
    “Okay, nothing to see here, get to classes,” Thompson directed the other kids, who had crowded around to eavesdrop.
    “Thanks, man. I owe you one,” Ryan said.
    “One? And the rest,” Travis mumbled.
    The sound of the bell rang out as they shuffled their way down the corridor.
    “Really? His mom?” Ryan snickered.
    “Glad you were amused.”
    First period of the day was History, a real snooze fest led by Mr. Harper, a guy who obviously had issues. Not only did he have a germ phobia, making every student squirt hand sanitizer on their hands before they entered his room, but he was also in the habit of closing his eyes while he taught, as if he was re-enacting moments in history in his mind. Kids would play pranks on him and switch chairs while his eyes were closed; it confused him every time. You would hear everyone’s snickering wash across the room.
    It was always the same; if it wasn’t American history his lecture was filled with endless stories from his youth. Twenty minutes in there was like an eternity of torture. Travis would pluck the hairs from his leg just to keep himself awake. Most days he would glance over at Ryan to find him asleep with his cheek in a puddle of drool or prying open his eyelids with two small paperclips; it was just too funny. The only thing worse than listening to Mr. Harper drone on was being asked a question. Travis would slink down in his seat, bobbing behind the kid in front of him, counting the minutes and hoping the teacher didn’t call upon him.
    The class was full except for a few seats that remained empty. Mr. Harper was at the head of the class furiously scribbling on the whiteboard. On one side was the quote, “Now, I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” On the other side he was finishing up writing another note that read, “LANL Field Trip Forms—Get Your Parents To Sign Them!”
    It would be the third time a class from their school had gone into the Lab, a rarity for sure in this town.
    “Would someone like to share with the class what Robert Oppenheimer was trying to convey when he spoke these words from the Bhagavad Gita?” His eyes surveyed the class looking for a willing participant. Most students blankly stared back, while only a few raised their hands—Travis went one better and avoided all eye contact.
    “Travis Marshall?”
    He flinched at the sound of his name and then his stomach sank . Oh c’mon. Travis shuffled in his seat; he felt a bead of sweat form on his brow. “Well, um …” he stammered. “I kind of think that maybe he realized what he had done—you know after—what he had just created …” He trailed off.
    “You say it as if he didn’t fully know the extent of its purpose until it was too late?”
    “Well, we know it was built in more than thirty places, so some would never have known what they were developing,” Travis spat out with a sense of certainty. “I mean, it’s possible, right?”
    Mr. Harper paced between the desks, appearing lost in thought as though contemplating his