We Were Raised for the Harvest
Language: en
The screen of the burner phone ignited in the dark, and the notification headline hit me like a poisoned ice pick to the gut. "MASSACRE AT WESTBRIDGE ACADEMY: 5,000 STUDENTS AND FACULTY DEAD." Right below it, in chillingly clinical font: "Only two students unaccounted for." My knuckles turned white as I gripped the device. I looked up at the boy standing by the window of our grimy roadside motel. Luke. My first love. Six months ago, we were worried about prom; now, he stood with his back to me, his varsity jacket damp with night dew, his shoulders shaking like a leaf caught in an autumn…