Something terrible happened in my neighbors' house. It's getting cold too fast, like the entire winter is dropping here and now. A shadow comes down like a blanket of ice as I search my four pockets-slacks and hoodie. Where are my keys? There are moments when it controls me. The shadows, the darkness. Moments where I become dizzy, undefined, just a floater like the failed tests in my classrooms. But I know my porch—a column of white balusters. I know my front door-dead bolt and handle that you push down to get inside. A freezing wind sweeps under my hoodie, pulling me backward. I tilt my way into the house and click the door shut. The TV's playing from the living room. Somehow. Mom's out of town. "Benji?" I call. No answer. The air is cold inside, and the light is so dim that even the earth-tone prints on the wall have lost their luster. Around the entryway, I find the TV on Channel 2 News. "We have to put a stop to gun violence. How many more people have to die?" There's a headline with a picture of my neighbor-the son of the weeping couple. MATTEO MOONEY, SURVIVOR OF HERITAGE HIGH SHOOTING, FOUND DEAD IN HOME Oh my God... Matteo is ... dead?