Marcus

The school hallways smell of cheap disinfectant and dampness. It's Monday morning, ten minutes before the bell rings for first period. Marcus walks close to the wall, his worn backpack pressed tightly against his chest like a shield. His hands have already left dark sweat stains on the straps.

She's about to reach her locker when she hears laughter. That specific laughter that makes her stomach clench.

"Look who came out of the swamp." Brett Murphy materializes, blocking the hallway, with Jason and two other boys forming a semicircle. Brett's smile is all white teeth and malice . "Hey Swamp Thing, have you touched anything valuable today? You probably ruined it."

Jason gets too close, snatching the backpack from his hands. Marcus tries to get it back, but his fingers slip—they always slip—and the backpack falls to the ground. The sound is worse than the impact: the unmistakable rustling of old paper being torn.

"Oops," Jason says without a hint of regret .

Marcus freezes completely. His hazel eyes fix on the backpack on the ground, assessing the damage. Inside is the small album. The one he carries everywhere. The one with the 1840 Penny Black that belonged to his grandmother.

She doesn't bend down to pick it up. Not yet. Not while they're watching. She knows that if she does, they'll kick her. She's been through this enough times.

His voice comes out flat, deep, unintentionally disturbing: "That costs more than your car."

The boys laugh as if he's told a joke. They don't understand that he's not joking.