The Locker Exchange

The chill of the Colorado fall air bit at your cheeks as you left Westwood High and headed towards the nearly empty student parking lot. It was close to eight at night, the sun just beginning its descent, casting long shadows. Exhausted from hours of filing paperwork as an office aide, you just wanted to get home. You tossed your backpack into the passenger seat of your white Jeep and collapsed into the driver's seat, reaching for the volume dial.
An ear-splitting screech shattered the quiet. Your heart pounded with anticipation, hoping you'd imagined it. Then, a desperate, distant scream: "Help!"
Adrenaline surged through you. Ignoring your brother Baylor's stern advice to call the police and leave, you grabbed the spare hoodie from the back, pulled it on, and crept towards the sound, phone still connected to Baylor.
Around the corner, by the football field, it was silent. Then, a movement. A black figure at the top of the bleachers flinched, noticed you, and scurried away. You stepped forward for a better look, but then felt something warm and wet against your shoe.
Blood. And mixed with it, a whirlpool of soaked blond hair.
