There’s a gun pressed to my head. And a dead body at my feet. We’re in the auditorium, on the stage. I can almost picture this is just an act, but no, I have been taken hostage by my own father.

The room that was once filled with gunshots is now dead silent, except for the occasional moaning or whimpering of the injured that lie around us. I’m staring at a group of police officers. They’re frozen, as if someone pressed a pause button. One of them is saying something, but I can’t hear it.

I feel my dad tug my shirt collar a little, and I suck in a breath. The edges of my vision begin to fray, and soon everything is blurry. My knees feel shaky, and I feel lightheaded. And then there’s black.

I’m walking home from school. My sister is talking about her teacher, the same one I had when I was in first grade, and complaining about something I used to love. It’s windy, so my hair is blowing in my face.

I can see the church where my mom normally picks us up in the distance, but a car pulls up right in front of us. The window rolls down slowly, and inside is

“Dad!” Lyla runs over and pokes her head in through the window. “Dad, I’ve missed you so much! Why did you leave?” I run over too, but I’m less excited to see my father. He slowly gets out of the car and hugs us both, but I push away. I step in front of Lyla and stand as tall as I can.

“Mom said we can’t see you anymore.” He shakes his head.

“Oh, Oakley, I know.” He tries to give me another hug, but I step back. He slowly kneels down in front of us. “Baby, it’s ok. I made a mistake before, but I fixed it. I fixed it, honey! Your mom said it’s ok.”

I let a small smile loose. He smiles, too, and Lyla steps out from behind me. He wraps his arms around us, and this time I don’t push him away. After a while, he looks at us both. ‘

“Now, how does some ice cream sound?”

We never got that ice cream

I blink rapidly and try to sit up. My ears are ringing, and my vision is blurry. I’m pretty sure I’m on the floor. Someone is shouting something, though I can’t seem to figure it out. Then I feel an arm around my chest.

“She’s my daughter,” my father rasped. “I should get to see her!” I immediately try to get out of his grip. Panic surges through my body. My vision has somewhat cleared, and I can see the gun about 10 feet away.

I dig my claws into his arm, but he doesn’t let go. Then I don’t really know what happens, but my father’s grip loosens, and then I’m being dragged away. An officer picks me up and runs. I can hear my dad’s shouts behind me, but I try to block them out. Paramedics rush into the auditorium and begin treating the injured.

The officer rushes me out of the auditorium and sets me down with a bunch of other students, near the main doors. There are a couple of officers around and a few paramedics, too. Almost all of them are injured and crying. ‘

The officer leaves after setting me down, and I don’t know where he went. There’s a girl next to me holding a bloody shoulder and a boy I recognized from my theater class staring blankly at the ceiling. A woman comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder.

“Honey, are you hurt?” I shake my head absently. “I heard you passed out. Are you feeling dizzy?” I shake my head again, trying hard to ignore the screams and cries all around me. “Alright, what’s your name?” Her voice is so soft, but if you listen close enough, you can hear how stressed she is.

“G-- Gra-- Gracie Warren,” I manage to get out. I still wasn't used to my fake name. She writes it down quickly, and I can't help but notice how pretty her handwriting is.

"Are you injured anywhere?" I shake my head yet again. I mean, my head is pounding, but I figure it's just from the stress. I glance around again, trying to slow my breath. The lady leaves, off to assist more bloody gunshot wounds. A thought plunges its way into my head. My father did this. He was the reason so many got hurt. Students most likely died today at his hands. It's enough to make me feel like crying, to hide in a hole and die. Because while he may not care, I do. All those people had families, parents, and little siblings who will now have to live without them. Siblings like... I bolt upright.
"Lyla!" I can't breathe. Lyla is far, just a couple of blocks away at the middle school. If my dad came after me, he surely would go after her as well. I grab the sleeve of a paramedic passing by and pull him towards me. "My sister, she's at the middle school, you have to get her," I gasp. He smiles, clearly trying to comfort me.

"It's alright. The middle school is on lockdown; everyone is safe." I shake my head before he even finishes speaking.

"No, no, you don't understand. He's gonna find her, track her down. There might be others, but she's not safe. Please," He patted me on the back.

"We are doing everything we can to protect the schools in the area. Your sister will be okay," My vision got blurry as they filled with tears.

"Please, I'm trying to tell you that the shooter was my father. I was the target, the reason he--" I choked on the words, but by now I had gotten the paramedic's attention. "My sister is in middle school. That's his next target. I know he's caught, but he might have someone else waiting or trying to grab her. Please just make sure she's safe." I'm fully crying now, and I'm struggling to breathe. The medic calls someone over, a cop, I assume. I stop listening, too focused on thinking of every little thing that could go wrong. Every way my dad could target Lyla, every way I can lose my sister.

I don't remember much of what happens next. I was too trapped in the horrors of my imagination. It used to be something my parents praised me for, but right now it felt just like a curse. And then my thoughts shifted to everything I had done on this wretched day before everything had gone wrong. When there was no shooter, my father wasn't beyond crazy. When the only thing I was worrying about was homework and the upcoming track meet.

I hated track. Actually, I despised it, abhorred it. If there were a word that could fully capture my hatred, I would use it. Mom had insisted me and Lyla both join the track team; she had told us that she wanted us to "be involved," but we both knew she wanted to prepare us in case my father tried to kidnap us yet again. She had done everything. Moved 3 times, tried homeschooling, but it never worked. He just kept coming up with new ways. I was beginning to lose track of how many attempted and partially successful attempts there had been. I think 5? The third time, we got all the way to the next state before the police caught him. I had been in 6th grade, 4 years ago.

I can never understand why my thoughts drifted so much. One moment, I was fully into whatever was happening; the next lost in my own mind. Seemly cut off from reality. What I do remember was screams, another round of gunshots, an ambulance siren, and then the hospital. That's where everything started to actually make sense again. I was in a room by myself with a thick gray curtain. A couple of machines were hooked up just to make sure I was fine, I guess.

I was about to start another crying episode about Lyla when I heard pounding footsteps.

"Ma'am?!" Someone shouted, then the curtain was yanked open.

My mom hurled into the room and hugged me as tight as she could. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She sobbed but didn't loosen her grip one bit. "Oakley, thank goodness you're ok, I thought surely the shooter would have sh--" she didn't finish, just continued to cry into my shoulder. I was hugging her too and sobbing. But then I remember my whole panic in the first place.

"Mom, mom." I shook her and forced her to look at me. "Where's Lyla?" My voice broke on her name. "Where is she? Please tell me she's safe?" My mom started crying again.

"I don't know, I- they- she's, uh, she's still at the middle school, I think." I inhaled sharply. "But it's ok, sweetheart. The shooting was at the high school. And they caught the shooter. She'll be fine, the school is prepared for this sort of thing." I shook my head, feeling a weird sense of deja vu.

"No, no, no, no. Mom, the shooter, it was--" I felt the words catch in my throat. "It was Dad! He" I inhaled again, pushing back tears. "He held a gun to my head and um..." I couldn't keep the waterfall back. "Mom, he's going for Lyla next. They don't know, but she's not safe." Her face was white, almost transparent. Her eyes wide and her fingers trembling. She opened her mouth, but all that came out was,

"How could Grant do this?"

She's gone, she's gone, she's gone. I can hardly breathe. Lyla is gone. I was right, he did have others working for him. They took her, somehow they took her. It's all over the news, Lyla Warren was kidnapped after a school shooting. One news station even asked me for an interview upon hearing that I'm her sister. My mom said no for me and I will forever be grateful to her for that. I was in too much shock to say anything. I began to silently plead. Please let her come home, let her be safe, please.

They took her, they took her somewhere. Dad got away with his friends, presumably, and they sped away. The police lost them. Knowing Lyla, she's probably making it very hard for them.

We have no idea where she is. Unless by some miracle they get pulled over or investigated, we won't find her for ages.

We were in the police station, telling them what we knew and whatever, and the lady talking to me said something. She says, "Things like this happens all the time, blah blah, empty promises."

Things like this? What's that supposed to mean!? That- that this isn't important enough to stand out? That my sister is just another impersonal case file no one really cares about? That they aren't gonna try as hard as they can, because "things like this happen all the time"??

They say they're doing their best. They tell us there's nothing more they can do. They give us hollow apologies and send us home, promising to update us. And I don't know why, but that makes me so. Mad. They aren't doing their best. There's no way they're really, earnestly, doing the best they can. They don't care about us. They don't care about Lyla. They're only doing their job.

There's a noise. A small noise, in a drawer in my bedroom. I'm not sure there's anything important in that drawer. Old junk, mostly. Maybe there's a rat! Eww, I hope not. But... no, it doesn't sound like an animal. It's more of a... oh, son of a biscuit.

I sprint over to the drawer and yank it open. Turns out, miracles do happen. It's the walkie talkie I got for Christmas a few years back. And Lyla got the other one.

"Come in, this is Oakley. Lyla? Lyla, is that you!?"

The response came in a whisper.

"Oakley! Oh man, am I glad you picked up. I'm in a gas station bathroom right now, I probably don't have long to talk."

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Um, uh, well where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay, don't worry. More than a bit mad? Yes. But that's besides the point."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Honestly? Not really. Dad wouldn't really hurt me, at least not on purpose. And this isn't exactly my first rodeo."

"Okay, I guess you're right. But where are you? Do you know?"

"Actually, yeah. You know that cabin we used to go to during the summers with dad? I'm pretty sure we're going there. It seems like the same road. And dad ditched his friends somewhere or other."

"We're looking for you! I love-"

"Okay, gotta go. Seeya, Oaks."

Silence. Well. At least she was okay.

Have to tell mom, tell the police... the police. What are they gonna do? Nothing, probably. You know, the cabin isn't so very far away. I could get there. I got my license a few weeks ago. But... mom would notice the car being gone. And she'd never let me go, even if she came too. Aunt Josie's car! She left the keys with us while she went on her trip. I'd be back long before her. I have to get there soon, and the police would take ages to process everything in their system. It'd be fine. I'd leave a note. Mom would be worried. Heck, I'm worried. But I feel like I have to do this.

It's late. 3 or 4 a.m., I'm not too sure. Just take the keys from the hook. Ride my bike down to Aunt Josie's. Open the garage door. It feels infinitely too loud on the silent street. Throw my backpack in the back seat. No turning back now. I left a note on the counter. Told mom where I was going. That I'd be fine. She can tell the police if she likes. As if they'd care.

Don't worry, Lyla. I'm coming.