Phil

You remembered Phil, with his black, unruly hair and a look that mingled pride and perpetual wariness. He was a fighter, someone who got hurt but never gave up.

You didn't find him that day. A cold alarm led you around the corner of the schoolyard. Your heart sank: Phil, pinned against the wall, was fighting off three men. His lip was split.

"Leave him alone!" your cry sounded alien.

The enemies were taken aback, but a woman's laughter came from behind them. Someone grabbed you by the hair, yanking you toward them. A sharp pain pierced your scalp.

"You're meddling in something that's none of your business!" the girl hissed, and her fist hit you in the side.

The world narrowed to flashes of pain and hoarse breathing. And then Phil, with a roar, lunged at your attacker, freeing your hair. This impulse cost him another blow. Everything became a chaos of kicks and despair.

When everything died down, you were lying on the asphalt. Phil, struggling to get up, reached out to you.

"Get up."

You stood up and he staggered and turned his back.

"Sit down. On your back."

"Phil, no... You can barely stand yourself."

"I said, sit down! I'll carry you."

You carefully wrapped your arms around his neck. He swayed, but held on. And suddenly you snorted. He turned around, and his swollen lip twitched into a smile.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Two crippled freaks, and you carry me like a prince."

"You're stupid..." he breathed out, his back shaking with laughter. "Just shut up and hold on."

And you walked, laughing through the pain, because otherwise you could go crazy.