Three letters were all it took to spell out the end of Alfie's time in Niobrara.

Three letters, an F, an A, and a G, lurid orange spray paint dripping down the front of his locker, discovered the morning after the first basketball game of the season.

That morning, Alfie slipped into school just before the bell for first period, as he always did. Alfie was a late sleeper by nature and would have happily been nocturnal if anyone would let him. He'd also learned long ago that sliding into class at the last moment didn't give his classmates much opportunity for snide comments or dirty looks. While the majority of the school simply ignored Alfie, there were a handful of students—like Chris Ross and his friends—who'd made it their mission to harass Alfie whenever they were feeling bored or Alfie had a free period or Mercury was in retrograde. They never seemed to need much of an excuse.

The halls were crowded, as they always were, but something was different today—the students were all clustered towards the south end of the main hall, and there was a strange, ominous electricity in the air. Alfie narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and his stomach began to sink as he got closer and realized the epicenter of whatever was causing a stir seemed to be right around Alfie's locker.

He pushed through the crowd, irritated, but as soon as the students saw it was Alfie shoving at them, they stepped back, as though Alfie were Moses parting the Red Sea.

And that's when he saw it.

An odd kind of calm descended over Alfie then, as he surveyed the graffiti on his locker. He could feel the eyes of the entire school on him, waiting for a reaction. He simply stood there, looking. They hadn't even done a good job—the spray paint had run, leaving sloppy trails of paint everywhere, and whoever had written it had atrocious handwriting, like a kindergartener.

He was shocked, of course, but not exactly surprised. Numbed, he was able to notice the relief he felt, observing it calmly like a butterfly that had landed on his hand. Since that night all those months ago, at the party Wynn had dragged him to—at the party Alfie had followed Wynn to—Alfie realized he'd been waiting for this.

He hadn't known what this would be exactly, of course. He'd simply known that Chris Ross and his friends would escalate things until they got what they wanted.

Alfie wasn't even sure what they wanted. To make him miserable, yes. To make him leave, maybe. He wasn't even convinced about that—because if Alfie wasn't around, who would they torment?

Though Alfie did feel confident they'd find someone new once he was gone.

"Alder, my office. Now."

The principal's voice cut through Alfie's almost meditative trance. The principal was shooing all the students away, yelling for them to get to class, though it wasn't having much effect. Everyone was much more interested in seeing the latest Alfie Alder saga unfold than going to first period.

Alfie followed Principal Pearce to his office mechanically, his body taking over as his brain vacated the premises. He wondered vaguely if he was in some kind of shock—but he wasn't sure if that was possible without physical trauma. No matter what it was, he was certainly fine with the low stillness that had settled over him, numbing him.

"Care to explain?" Principal Pearce said, dropping heavily into the leather chair behind his desk. Alfie sat, too, in an uncomfortable plastic chair that wasn't quite molded to any human proportions, just like the chairs in the library.

"Well, it looks like someone spray painted my locker, from what I could see," Alfie said dryly, leaning back his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

Principal Pearce gave him a lethal look. He'd never been Alfie's number one fan. Alfie had always believed that his respect had to be earned, but Principal Pearce came from a different school of thought, and hadn't been particularly interested in proving himself to a then-freshman. But while Alfie had never behaved badly enough to merit any real consequences, he hadn't bothered to do, well, any work in his three and a half years at Niobrara High.

"You do understand that vandalism is a clear violation of school rules, don't you?" Principal Pearce said.

"Uh, yeah," Alfie said, slouching down further. "I figured this wasn't exactly the art department's latest mural."

"Mr. Alder, your contempt for school rules has—"

"Wait a second," Alfie said, bolting upright. "Do you think I did this?"

"It is your locker, is it not?" Principal Pearce said.

"Yeah, it's my fuckin' locker—"

"Language."

"Yes," Alfie said. "It's my stupid locker. But why would I fu—why would I write that on my locker?"

"It is hard to fathom why you do the things you do, Mr. Alder," Principal Pearce said, narrowing his eyes. Alfie glared right back at him. Principal Pearce was an intelligent man, he knew, but he was old-fashioned and small-minded. It was people like him that had made Niobrara a living hell for Alfie all his life—and even before he'd been born, the same people had shunned and mocked his mother for daring to not feel ashamed of an unexpected pregnancy.

"Well, I didn't do it," Alfie said, throwing his hands up in the air. "But I have a feeling you're not going to believe me."

"Correct. I don't believe you."

Alfie made a disgusted noise.

"Jesus—"

"Language."

"Jesus fucking Christ on a graham cracker," Alfie snapped. "This is ridiculous. Talk to Chris Ross and all them. Hell, you know what, give them some kind of commendation for it. They're just saying what everyone's thinking, right?"

Alfie's voice had gone high and slightly hysterical—the semi-pleasant numbness he'd felt had burned off like a fog, and now all he could feel was a stomach-churning mix of anger and disbelief.

And, on top of it all, he felt frustration with himself, that he had apparently dared hope anything different might happen—that anything would ever fall in Alfie's favor in this godforsaken place.

Principal Pearce had pulled out Alfie's file and was flipping through it.

"Shockingly, this is your first serious offense," Principal Pearce said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "You'll have Saturday detention for the rest of the semester, and today, you'll be scrubbing that locker clean, no matter how long it takes."

"What?" Alfie's voice was louder than he meant it to be, and two straggling sophomores peered in through the open doorway, trying to figure out what was going on. "Are you kidding me?"

"Get to class," Principal Pearce snapped at the sophomores, who promptly scurried off. "No, I am not, Mr. Alder—"

"Stop calling me that—"

"I know you have always considered yourself above the rules, but actions have consequences."

"I. Didn't. Do. It." Alfie protested, stressing each word.

There was no point in resisting, though, and half an hour later, Alfie found himself kneeling in front of his locker with a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, scouring at the awful, bright orange letters as they burned themselves into his memory.

He was trembling with rage, with disbelief, with humiliation. His hands shook so badly he kept nearly dropping the sponge. He felt like a character from a Hawthorne novel, his punishment far beyond the scope of anything he'd ever done.

He wasn't being punished for spray paint on a locker, he knew. He was being punished for being different. For being himself. For refusing to let Niobrara suffocate him, entrap him, confine him.

The only thing that kept him from refusing to clean off his locker at all was his mother. It was only when Principal Pearce had threatened to call her in from work that Alfie had given in. He didn't want her to miss work—she got so few paid time off hours as it was.

And he didn't want her to know about this, didn't want her to feel guilt for not protecting her child from something she had no control over anyway.

So he scrubbed.

"Alfie?"

Alfie flinched and looked up, but the voice was gentle.

Rebecca Benson.

She was hugging her books to her chest, her hair in a neat braid over her shoulder. She looked down at him apprehensively.

"What?" Alfie grunted.

"Here," Rebecca said softly. "Let me help."

She knelt down beside him, setting her books to the side and pushing up the sleeves of her sweater.

Alfie didn't want to want Rebecca's help. But he needed it—not just her help, but her softness, too. A moment of compassion in a world that felt so cold and hard and ugly. He hated needing that, hated that even after a lifetime of being kicked in the ribs by this place, these people, so many times, he still only wanted someone to care about him.

Finally, Alfie nodded, worried that if he tried to speak, he would start to cry.

Rebecca, so sweet, so kind. So undeserving of all the hostility Alfie had shown her.

"Don't you have class?" Alfie muttered, his voice thick.

"I have the second highest GPA in the school," Rebecca said. "I can afford to miss class." Alfie was taken aback by the darkness in her voice. When he glanced at her, her face was hard, her jaw set, as she stared at the word.

She grabbed the other brush, setting to work scouring the ragged G.

"You don't have to," Alfie said weakly, and she looked up at him, her gaze fierce.

"Yes, Alfie, I do," she said. Alfie realized he'd never seen Rebecca angry before—she was so mild-mannered most of the time, but now she was a force to be reckoned with, like some ancient goddess of the hunt.

Alfie felt a pang of love for this girl he couldn't bring himself to hate.

"This isn't okay," she muttered, turning back to the locker. Her cheeks flushed pink and her nostrils flared. Alfie liked her more in that moment than he'd ever liked her before.

I wish she didn't love Wynn, he thought vaguely. Maybe in another life, we could have been friends.

Alfie mumbled something incoherent and turned back to his task.

They didn't make much headway by the time the bell rang, announcing the end of first period. Alfie braced himself as students came flooding into the hallways. He tried to block out the whispers, tried to pretend he didn't feel the burn of hundreds of eyes staring him down.

Rebecca was scrubbing more furiously than ever, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes glinting with tears.

"Really, Rebecca, you can go," Alfie said, and he was horrified to hear his voice wobble.

"I'm not just gonna—I'm not leaving you to deal with this, Alfie," Rebecca sputtered, not taking her eyes off the orange paint. "This is—I just—I'm so—I'm so mad."

Alfie attempted a small smile, which she didn't see.

"Thanks," he said, only barely managing to get the word out. It made him feel weak, to feel such gratitude. Weak, but also scared and needy and vulnerable, and a hundred thousand other dark and awful things.

"Oh no, Alfie," a loud voice said, dripping with fake sympathy. "Pearce didn't like your locker makeover?"

Alfie froze, as cold and soapy water trickled down his sleeve to his elbow.

He didn't dare turn around, and suddenly he was aware of someone right beside him, of breath hot against his ear.

"Hope you like it," the voice purred, low and dark. "Didn't want you to think we'd forgotten about you."

Alfie slowly turned towards the hulking figure of Chris Ross. Chris towered over him, and Alfie looked up at him dully.

He felt so, so tired. Far too exhausted to deal with whatever Chris wanted to say or do to him.

"Gee," Alfie said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's great, Chris. Thanks so much. You really know how to make a boy blush."

Chris's eyes narrowed.

"You're a fucking freak, Alder," he said. "We've all been waiting for Wynn to figure it out, but, well, you know how Wynn is. He's nice and all, but he's an idiot. He doesn't have the balls to tell you to fuck off. Though, I guess that's why you chose him in the first place, isn't it? Knew he'd be easy prey?"

A bolt of anger flashed through Alfie, so strong that he nearly gagged. It was anger like he'd never felt before, unparalleled, hot and uncontrolled and dangerous, a live wire sparking, gun powder igniting, a dying star exploding outward before its final collapse.

Alfie dropped his scrub brush, and it hit the ground with a wet splat. Rebecca had taken a step back, and she was staring at them, wide-eyed, clearly unsure what to do.

You stupid little piece of shit, Alfie thought at Chris. Fuck with me all you want. But don't you dare treat Wynn like that.

"Why the fuck are you so obsessed with me, Chris?" Alfie said loudly, and he was pleased to see the smallest sliver of surprise in Chris's expression, even if he covered it up almost immediately.

Chris opened his mouth to say something, but Alfie didn't let him get that far.

"No, really," Alfie demanded. "Because it seems like you sure spend a lot of your time thinking about me. Almost like you have a little crush or something."

Chris made a disgusted face. More students were gathering, but Alfie didn't care. He was past the point of no return, swept away by a pure, exhilarating tide of rage. Alfie stepped forward, closing the distance between them so they were nearly chest to chest—or, given the height difference, chest to solar plexus.

"That's right, isn't it?" Alfie said, his voice growing even louder. "Are you hoping that one of these days, I'll return your unrequited love? Then you could ask me to prom—"

"Shut the fuck up, Alder," Chris said, staring Alfie down. He was trying to intimidate Alfie, but Alfie had nothing left to lose. He was being intimidated now.

"If you get lucky, maybe one of these days," Alfie said. "I'll get down on my knees and suck your cock for you. That's what you're really after, right?"

He reached up and trailed one finger down Chris's chest.

And the next thing Alfie knew, he was on the ground, Chris on top of him, and a galaxy of pain exploded in his head as Chris's fist connected with his jaw.

He laughed.

Absolutely fucking worth it.

* * *

The moon was full, so bright Alfie had no trouble skirting potholes as he biked across town. His face was still a mess, he knew, but at least his nose wasn't bleeding anymore.

It hadn't been smart, exactly, to antagonize someone who was a full foot taller than himself and was known for being violent, but Alfie didn't regret a thing.

Because finally, finally, he was getting out of this shithole place.

After they'd been dragged apart—because Alfie had been fighting back with everything he had, even if he didn't have much to begin with—Alfie had been hauled into the principal's office for the second time that morning. And that time they had called his mom.

She'd been quiet as she listened to the principal explain that Alfie was being expelled. It was only on the way home that she had reached over, squeezed Alfie's hand, and asked for his side of the story. Alfie, ice pack pressed to his cheek, had almost started crying from sheer relief. At least she was on his side.

Now, he took the back way to Wynn's house, leaving his backpack and bike stashed underneath the large tree in the neighbor's unfenced yard. There'd been a time in Alfie's life where he'd clambered over the fence and snuck into Wynn's house at least once a week. But he hadn't been back to Wynn's house since that final time they'd kissed, all those weeks ago.

He dropped softly into the yard, praying that the Wynn family dog, a foul-tempered terrier, was inside. The last thing he needed was Rufus yapping and growling at him as he was trying to sneak around.

He scaled the trellis and hauled himself up onto the garage roof. They'd learned the hard way that Wynn was too heavy to climb it now, and he'd nearly fallen when one of the boards had broken beneath him. For once, Alfie's scrawniness was an asset.

He carefully crawled across the gentle incline of the roof and tapped on Wynn's window.

Silence.

He tapped again, a little louder this time. He tried to peer inside, but the curtains were closed. He swore under his breath and tapped once more.

He was about to give up when the curtains shifted, and the window slid open.

"Alfie?" Wynn said, looking extremely confused. His eyes were only half-open, and his hair was adorably mussed. "What are you—"

"Wynn, thank god," Alfie said. "Come on. Get your stuff."

Wynn blinked a few times, and Alfie could see him waking up, could see the gears beginning to turn.

"Alfie—Jesus—I heard about—I heard about all the stuff this morning. They're saying you got expelled—is that true?" Wynn said, his brow furrowed. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry—I didn't hear about it 'til later. Wait—come in. It's freezing."

"No," Alfie said, shaking his head. He knew if he went inside, he'd lose momentum, and he couldn't risk that. His entire body thrummed. "And, yeah, I got expelled. Whatever. I hated that place. And I definitely scratched the shit out of Chris's eye, so it was worth it."

"I tried to find you after school," Wynn said. "I went to your house, but—"

"My mom and I were… taking care of some stuff," Alfie said. That afternoon, his mother had taken Alfie to the bank and withdrawn the few hundred dollars in her savings account.

She'd said that, if he was going to leave, she was going to give him the best possible head start she could.

"Your face—" Wynn said softly. He reached out the window, gently tracing his finger across Alfie's non-bruised cheek.

"Yeah, I mean, that's what happens when you pick a fight with a Neanderthal," Alfie said, waving away Wynn's concern. "Wynn, we're leaving. I know—I know I didn't give you a lot of notice but—well, I didn’t exactly plan on getting kicked out. I have to get out of here. Come with me."

Wynn froze, his hand still outstretched. Slowly, as if in a trance, his arm floated down to his side. He stared at Alfie.

"Come on," Alfie urged. "Throw some clothes in a bag. We don't need much. My mom gave me four hundred dollars, and that'll get us as far as San Francisco. We'll figure it out from there."

Wynn said nothing, his eyes growing larger and larger.

"Wynn, let's go," Alfie said, impatient now. "Bus leaves at midnight. We don't have much time."

"You're—you're leaving me?" Wynn said, his voice breaking.

Alfie frowned.

"What?" he said. Kneeling on the slope of the roof wasn't exactly comfortable, but he didn't dare pull himself inside Wynn's room. He was terrified of losing his momentum, of getting sucked back into this place just as he was about to free himself, simply because he couldn’t bear to leave Wynn. "Wynn, don't be dumb, I'm not leaving you—you're coming with me."

"You said—you said you wouldn't," Wynn whispered, and Alfie realized Wynn was shaking. "You said you'd wait. You said—you said not yet—"

Alfie's heart lurched. He'd known he was springing something huge on Wynn, but he'd really, truly believed that Wynn wouldn't hesitate to come, when push came to shove.

But here was Wynn, hesitating.

"That was before," Alfie said desperately. His hand shot out and grabbed Wynn's arm. "Please—Wynn—I know, I know it's sudden, but—you have to. Please."

"I—I—Alfie, what would I even do there?" Wynn said, and in the moonlight, Alfie saw his face twist with pain. "Four hundred dollars is nothing—"

"We'll figure it out," Alfie said. "Wynn, I promise. I'll take care of you, okay? And you'll take care of me. Look, I know you've never been broke before, but I have, and I promise you we'll figure it out. There's vet schools out there, Wynn—I looked it up, there's some really great programs in California, like, some of the best in the country. We can get jobs for a little bit and you can go to school and I can make art, and—"

"Alfie, this is ridiculous," Wynn said. He twisted his wrist out of Alfie's grasp but caught Alfie's hand, tangling their fingers together. "Do you hear yourself? This isn't—this isn't realistic."

"Fuck realistic," Alfie said fiercely, spitting the word out like sour fruit. He squeezed Wynn's hand harder. "Wynn, think about this. In ten years, where do you want to be? Do you really want to be here in Niobrara with a beer belly and four kids, hating your life and working for your dad? Visiting my fucking grave every year 'cause I blew my head off at twenty-one? Because that's where you're gonna end up."

Wynn winced.

"Alfie, don't joke about killing yourself—"

"I'm not joking," Alfie said. "That's the fucking thing. I have to leave, and I have to leave now, or I'm never gonna be strong enough."

Wynn's lip quivered, and for a moment, Alfie wondered if he might see Wynn cry for the very first time.

But no tears came.

"I'm scared, Alfie," Wynn whispered. "I—I don't want that. That future. I want—I want to—to be with you, but the thought of leaving—it's so scary—"

He stopped short, choking on the words.

Alfie's heart was dancing around in his chest, clapping its hands with glee. Wynn wanted to be with him. Wynn wanted to leave. They were really, really going to do this.

"I know it's scary," Alfie said. "I'm scared shitless, too, okay? This is a big thing, but just because something's scary doesn't mean it's bad. We gotta take a risk, Wynn, because—because if we stay here—it's gonna ruin us."

"Where—where would we go?" Wynn asked, biting his lip. Alfie's heart swelled.

"San Francisco," he said. "My mom's friend's got this cousin who lives out there—I have their contact information, so we can talk to them and figure it out, y'know? Find an apartment, find jobs—please, Wynn, we need to go, we can't miss the bus—"

"What about graduation?" Wynn asked, and Alfie snorted.

"What about it?" he said. "We can get our GEDs anywhere."

Wynn licked his lips, hesitating. He was still squeezing Alfie's hands firmly, and Alfie felt like his heart was beating so hard it was going to slam out of his chest entirely and go splatting onto the roof.

Far away, a car backfired, the sound cracking through the cold November air, and both Wynn and Alfie flinched.

And then, to Alfie's horror, Rufus started barking wildly.

"Fuck," Alfie whispered. "I thought he was inside."

"We got a dog door," Wynn said, his eyes going wide. "Shit. If my dad wakes up—"

And, sure enough, from inside, Alfie heard heavy footsteps. Wynn dropped Alfie's hand instinctively, pulling his arm back in the window, and Alfie pressed himself against the side of the house. A moment later, the back door opened, and Alfie heard Wynn's father swearing at Rufus to shut the fuck up.

Alfie was as still a statue—if Wynn's father looked up, he'd have a perfect view of Alfie on the roof, crouching outside his son's window—

But instead, Mr. Wynn yelled at Rufus one more time, and then disappeared back inside.

Wynn looked like he might faint.

"That was close—" Alfie breathed. "Okay, come on, grab your backpack, pack some warm clothes—"

"Alfie," Wynn said, and there was an edge in his voice Alfie didn't like. "I can't do this."

"What?" Alfie said. "Come on—you were just—you were thinking about it, I know it—please, Wynn, just admit that you want this, too—"

"I want it," Wynn said. "But I can't. Please—not tonight. Give me even a day. This isn't fair—"

"I know, I know," Alfie said, his heart plummeting. "I know it's not fair, and I'm sorry, and I promise you I'll make it up to you every goddamn day for the rest of my life, but—"

"This is crazy," Wynn said, shaking his head. "Alfie, seriously. Go home, go to bed, we'll talk about this in the morning."

"I'm not going to be here in the morning," Alfie pleaded. "Don't you get this?"

"Why tonight?" Wynn pleaded.

Alfie felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He didn't know how to make Wynn understand that Alfie felt more afraid and more exhilarated than he'd ever felt in his entire life, that Alfie was on the edge of tears from worry and fear and possibility. He knew Wynn wasn't as impulsive as he was, but he couldn't fathom how Wynn would ask Alfie to stay in this hellish place a moment longer.

"Wynn, today I scrubbed the word fag off my locker and then got punched in the face," Alfie said, his voice hardening. "This morning was one of the worst days of my life. I'm leaving."

"I can't believe you're fucking doing this to me," Wynn said, sounding aghast. Alfie glared at him.

"Excuse me? I'm not doing anything to you," he said. "I'm asking you to come with me. I'm fucking trying to rescue you."

"No, you're not, Alfie," Wynn said desperately. "You're being selfish. You want to leave now, and you want me to come, but you're not thinking of anyone but yourself—"

"No," Alfie snapped, horrified to hear this and realize it was the truth. "That's not—I'm—I'm not—"

"You are, Alfie, and you know it," Wynn said, looking panicked. He inhaled deeply, and the sound was ragged, almost like a sob. "Alfie. Please. I'm begging you. Don’t go. Don't leave me here—please, I can't—I can't do this without you."

It was only when Wynn reached out and brushed the tear from Alfie's cheek that he realized he was crying.

Time was running out.

"I'm sorry, Wynn," he whispered. "I can't stay here. It hurts too much. Everything."

"Alfie, please—"

Alfie leaned forward, cupping his hand around the back of Wynn's head. He pulled him in close and kissed him. Wynn was startled, but after a moment, he relaxed against Alfie, his lips parting slightly—

Breaking that kiss was the most difficult thing Alfie had ever done.

"I've loved you every minute of every day that I've known you, Wynn," Alfie whispered. "Goodbye."

Alfie heard Wynn say his name, quiet and pleading and devastated, but Alfie was already climbing down, terrified that if he stayed a moment longer, he'd stay forever.

And, with a battered backpack and a broken heart, Alfie set out to start his new life.