For old time’s sake, I flip open the pages and a note falls out onto the floor. It seems to flutter in slow motion, coming to a rest near my feet. Something sharp lodges in my gut when I recognize the handwriting on the note. It’s Moore’s. He’s left hundreds of these notes in my locker, backpack and textbooks over the last two years and seeing one never fails to make me lose my breath, tension gathering in my middle.
