Raymond
I had probably walked about a mile and a half before my mom pulled up beside me. The sun was pounding down on me, made even more intense by the blacktop beside me. My hair and my clothes were soaked with sweat, and my legs felt like wet spaghetti. She pulled up next to me and unlocked the doors.
I got in, slamming the door with more force than necessary, while she turned the car around and headed back toward the house. I aimed the air conditioner vents at my face. She kept looking at me, clearly worried and upset. “When we get home,” she said in a no-nonsense tone, “You are going to tell me exactly what happened.”
I nodded and bit down hard on my lower lip to keep myself from crying. I could taste the coppery flavor of blood in my mouth. And to make it worse, my phone kep
