Free The Well's End by Seth Fishman

hurry to put their arms around him and help him into the building. I hop from the window and head to the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Rob asks.
    â€œDid you see him? Something’s not right. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
    â€œBut you don’t know Devin.”
    â€œSo?” I spit, exasperated and tired of Rob’s indifference. I’m angry now, at Rob but also at myself. Maybe I could have done something, somehow. Maybe that’s what Dad meant. “Who cares if I don’t know him? I’m here, and he got shot at, and we’re obviously in danger, so I’m going to figure out what the hell happened. I didn’t ask you to come along, so don’t give me any of your shit, Rob.”
    Without waiting for an answer, I open the door and head into the hallway. A few others have done the same, and when I look back, Jo and Rob are following at a discreet distance, appearing chastised. I’m huffing air but manage to be secretly pleased; this anger feels new and good to me. A channel for my helplessness. I hurry down a couple floors to the lounge near the entrance where some of the students have been hanging out near the fireplace and watching movies and playing pool and foosball. Devin’s been placed on a couch in a seat of honor, and he’s slouched, in clear pain, clutching his ribs.
    â€œAre you okay?” This from Mindy, an RA. I know Mindy—she’s in my calc class and likes to complain about her 3.9 GPA. She’s also smitten with Devin, talks about him all the time, which is mainly how I know of him. “They let you go already? You don’t look so good.”
    I peer in and frown. Devin doesn’t look swollen, as I had initially thought. He looks . . . older. Like a bruised version of himself ten years from now. His jawline is full, stretching out from under the bandage. His torso and arms seem elongated; even his hair appears longer.
    Jo’s managed to catch up, and she whispers, “What’s wrong with him?” I shake my head.
    â€œHow’s Will?” someone shouts. “And Tom.”
    Tom. His name was Tom. The boy who bled on my jacket.
    Devin doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand to his eyes to block the light. Someone else calls out, “What did you see past the gate, Dev?” This rouses him. He moves his hands and speaks in a voice that needs to be lubricated. There’s blood on his teeth, and someone gasps.
    â€œSoldiers. Wearing those suits. Full mask and everything. A tank.”
    Everyone gets really quiet. A couple of people discreetly back away from him.
    â€œThey’re dead.” His voice cracks.
    Mindy takes his hand. “Who, Devin? Will? Tom? Are you sure?”
    He’s shaking his head. “No. I mean . . . Yes, Tom and Will died, a long time ago. From the crash. At least, I think so.” A few people have slumped to the floor. Zadie King is crying, holding a friend close. She was Tom’s girlfriend. Others start to sob, bodies shuddering all around me. And I’m embarrassed that I’m not. But my mind is whirling; I can feel it trying to put this all together. I glance across the room, and there’s a large mirror where I can see all the students in a semicircle facing Devin. I see Rob grimacing behind me, Jo using her finger to pull a tear from her eye. I see myself, my forehead creased, my eyes dark and empty, and I hate it, this feeling. That I’m stuck here and helpless. Zadie draws in a deep breath and controls herself, but Devin isn’t done. He’s still shaking his head, and I wonder how much that movement hurts him.
    â€œI don’t mean Tom and Will. I mean the others.”
    â€œWho, Devin?” Mindy is using the voice she uses to coax information from students about drug stashes and unwanted sexual encounters. Devin looks so tired, so gaunt, and as he sits there, breathing hard, I notice the tear