He walks down the hall, quick steps, eyes down. He hopes, as always, he can get to class before anyone notices. He knows, as always, that won’t happen.

He almost walks straight into Lance. Who names their kid after a weapon? he thinks. Lance has everything over him. Good looks, strong, tall, captain of the football team. And, of course, four goons as backup.

“In a hurry?” Lance asks him. It’s a rhetorical question, so he doesn’t answer.

“Excuse me,” he says, quietly, not looking up, and tries to leave. Lance steps in front of him, again.

“No. Uh-uh.” Lance chuckles. “You can go. If you can get past me, wuss.” Lance pushes him. One little push.

The attack comes swiftly. Before anyone can react, he’s standing before Lance, feet spread, fists balled at his side. Lance lies on the ground, screaming, nose and jaw broken, kneecap dislocated.

The bell rings, breaking the fantasy. “Excuse me,” he says again, sidestepping Lance again, and hurries to class. Hoping, as always, no one else notices.