A/N: Why hello there, everyone! I'm back from camp, had a blast, hope your summers are all equally amazing and lacking in school. I've been working on this story for a while, it's the first chapter of maybe two or three parts, and I'm extremely extremely excited about it! My first non-post-RTT fic – who thought that day would come? Well, technically, it remains post-RTT in the sense that JT remains dead (sob!), but this fic doesn't deal directly with the aftermath. He's still referenced, of course, because Toby is a main character and I like to think that even ten years down the road, Toby can't get through a day without a few thoughts of JT. But anyway, this fic takes place eight years after the gang has graduated. Hatzilakos, who I will admit is kind of extremely bitchy in this fic, but when you find out what happened to Peter, it makes more sense. Also, she's getting old and possibly more cranky. Also, I just don't really like her – artistic license, right? BUT ANYWAY, Hatzilakos organized this big memorial assembly thing at Degrassi, and all four – Emma, Sean, Toby, and Jimmy – have shown up. I don't want to reveal anymore – let the angst and sarcasm ensue!

A/N v2: Degrassi? Not mine. Title/Lyrics? Streetlight Manifesto's.

Part One: Somehow, Someway

everything we built is gone and everyone around is stunned

we just sit here staring blankly and everything goes numb

lord, if I felt a thing, I could wrap my mind around this…

I.

It was the same. Eight years later, and everything was exactly the same.

Stacks of Travel magazines and copies of the Grapevine, circa 2002. A lost and found box filled with dirty gym shorts and forgotten notebooks. A row of boys along the far wall – awkwardly angry, bloody and brooding – waiting for punishment. Mrs. McKenna, the secretary long rumored to be a witch of green The Wizard of Oz variety, screeching into the telephone.

Toby stepped into the front office of Degrassi Community School, muttering the lyrics to Time Warp under his breath. He was surprised to find it even smelled the same – of cheap air conditioning and McKenna's noxious perfume, Springtime Wildflowers. Two girls huddled in the corner emitted series of cackles. Toby could have sworn he heard them mutter the words Heather Sinclair, but he was probably just another sign that he was on the fast track to senility.

Toby marched up to the front desk, offered ol' McKranky his best grin. "Hello, I'm Toby Isaacs, I'm here for –"

"SHH!" she hissed in reply, waving her talons around in anger. Toby, who really should have known better in the first place, shut up and let her finish her conversation. "I TOLD HIM HE SHOULDN'T HAVE MARRIED THAT GIRL! I SAID SHE WAS NO GOOD! BUT DID HE LISTEN – NO! OF COURSE NOT! AND LOOK WHERE THAT'S GOT HIM – A HERD OF GOATS AND NO BABY!" Toby listened with mild interest as McKenna howled on. After she had chucked the phone back into the receiver, the secretary finally turned her sharp gaze on Toby. "WHAT WAS IT YOU WANTED?"

"I'm, uh," – eight years later, her stony gaze still filled his mouth with marbles – "Toby Isaacs, class of '07 – I'm here for the memorial, uh, service, thing, today –"

"WERE YOU THE KID WHO GOT SHOT?"

"Uh, no. That's Jimmy Brooks. He's in a wheelchair… There's really no resemblance."

"WERE YOU THE KID WHO STOPPED THE CRAZY KID FROM SHOOTING SIMPSON'S GIRL?"

"That's, um, also…not me. Sean Cameron, actually," At McKenna's blank look, he clarified, "You know… the kid who left, and then came back, and then got expelled for weed? That actually wasn't him, though, it was –"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?" McKenna asked, point blank. The woman had no shame.

"I, uh, I – I was there. When Sean, uh, saved the school. I…watched."

"OH." McKenna shook her head and shuffled through a stack of forms. "I CAN NEVER TELL YOU DAMN KIDS APART." If Toby possessed more courage, he would have pointed out the obvious differences between himself and, say, Jimmy Brooks. Namely, skin color. Or Sean, whose muscles were bigger than Toby's neck. But, alas, Toby was a coward. Always had been. Maybe if you hadn't been such a fucking wuss in the first place – his depressing inner monologue halted when McKenna tossed a packet at him. "THE PRINCIPAL WILL MEET YOU IN ROOM 224 SOON. ENJOY THE BUFFET, COURTESY OF DEGRASSI COMMUNITY SCHOOL PTA."

"Uh, thanks," Toby muttered as he tore the nametag off his packet. Clipping it on to his shirt, he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. He paused once more before heading out, taking a moment to remember how this office had been throughout his tenure at DCS. For a second, he let his mind wander: Marco, bounding in, babbling excitedly about the upcoming dance; Peter, sitting dejectedly in the corner, waiting for his mom to drop him off on volunteer detail. Emma, at the main desk, arguing heatedly with McKenna about the relative safety of genetically modified foods. Liberty, posting an audition notice for Dracula. JT, slumped over next to her, cracking a lame McKenna-vampire joke. Rick, seated near the door, coated in yellow paint and ready to beg Raditch for a change.

He blinked and his world was gone; replaced with the giggling grade nines in the corner, pissed off delinquents to the far right. He ushered himself back to reality and realized sadly: it wasn't the same. The magazines were, yeah, as were the sneakers in the lost and found box – but the people, his people, were gone. Marco was doing charity work in Asia, last he'd heard; Peter serving time for fraud. Emma had stopped caring about vegetable welfare years ago; Liberty hadn't written a play since. And JT and Rick were, of course… you know.

As much as he yearned for it, his days at Degrassi were over. All that remained was a tattered issue of The Grapevine and a laminated badge proclaiming him to be a "beloved alumni."

II.

Emma clutched her clutch, teetering atop the high heels she could never quite get used to. She pushed a strand of obviously blond hair behind her ear, and bit her lip. Some of her cheap drug store lip gloss smeared; she hurriedly applied another coat.

It was odd – Kwan's room had never scared her before. Sure, it had inspired terror in the hearts of slackers everywhere; but she'd never really minded English class. That was then, though; now, she feared one more step closer to room two-two-four would seize her body straight into an epileptic fit.

She fingered the name tag McKenna had chucked at her: Emma Nelson, beloved alumni. It was a weird word choice, oddly formal – she was twenty-six, not sixty. But, according to the grapevine – Snake, to be exact – a lot of things had changed around her alma mater since her graduation eight years before. Hatzilakos had a radically different style than Raditch, when it came to ruling Degrassi: a flair for the formal, a thirst for attention that could only be quenched by front page stories and flashing cameras. That's what this entire day was about, Emma suspected – the elaborate ceremony, the pseudo-mourning – it was all so Degrassi's principal could preen for the cameras and prove, once again, that the school board had made the right decision in canning Raditch.

But Emma had RSVPed, taken the day off from work – shown up, fresh and reeking of Victoria's Secret. Snake had made it clear she didn't have to – but what other option did she have? It was ten years later, exactly; she would have spent the day assigning busy work and reliving it all, anyway: the splatter of paint on her favorite hoodie; the bland chicken salad she'd choked down for lunch; how, for just under twenty seconds, the entire world had consisted of Toby's sweaty hand and a 9 millimeter barrel.

The way Emma saw it, she would be spending the entire day at Degrassi, either way – so why not wrangle some free food and a personal day out of it?

She forced herself forward. She had known he would be there – of course he was invited. He had been the shooting poster boy, after all – the one whose face had littered the papers for months afterward. The one who hadn't been able to take the pressure and the blood on his hands; he'd fled Toronto in favor of his alcoholic parents and their cramped trailer.

He'd come back, though, just for her. He'd jumped out of his car, hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, muscles gleaming, Jay trailing behind and cracking Brokeback jokes. He'd come back, and then –

No. Emma shut her eyes and told herself for the umpteenth time to not think about him. Even when they were standing in the same room – which, she realized in terror, was happening in about ten seconds – she wouldn't think about him. Wouldn't look at him. Would pretend she was totally cool standing three feet away from him in the room where he'd once given her the most beautiful earrings she'd ever seen.

Another step forward; her hand was on the doorknob. She paused, gathered up what remained of her nerve, and practiced his name in her head: Sean Cameron. Sean Cameron. Hopefully, when the time came that she actually had to say it aloud, it wouldn't destroy her.

The door opened, revealing a lame buffet spread out over a row of desks in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with the same Shakespeare and grammar posters from Emma's days at Degrassi; the same apple paperweight and nameplate sat atop Kwan's desk. And, smack dab in the middle of the high school time warp – there he was. Sean Cameron. The freaking love of her freaking life.

His hair was barely existent – the army will do that to you – and he looked uncomfortable in a button-up shirt and khakis. His hands were deep in his pockets, eyes focused on the floor. That is, until the door clicked behind her and her presence was realized.

"Emma!" he said nervously. "I didn't know you were coming!"

"You know me!" she chirped. "I never miss out on a good buffet!"

He chuckled for her benefit and she made a beeline for the food. Gorging would ease the awkwardness, and she could always puke it up later.

"So…" Sean began as Emma dug into the fruit platter. "How have you been?"

"Um…good. Really good, actually," Emma beamed. It was a lie, sure – but her hair was frizzing and she feared she was developing crow's feet around her eyes. Their years apart had been much kinder to Sean: tan and muscular and still absolutely adorable. Emma gulped. "How about you? Solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict yet?"

He grinned. "We've made some leeway. Planning a bonfire for Hamas and Fatah in a couple of weeks. There's going to be smores."

To her own surprise, Emma's laugh was genuine. "And a sing-along, I'd hope."

"What is a bonfire without a couple rounds of Kumbayah?" Sean popped a carrot in his mouth; Emma stopped piling food on her little plate. She looked up and, for the first time, met Sean's gaze. The brilliant blue stabbed her in the gut; she hurriedly gulped down a handful of cookies. "I'm glad you're here. You look – amazing, Em," he whispered sheepishly. Emma blushed.

"Sean, Emma – I'm so glad you're here! I was scared I'd be first, and have to, like, hang out awkwardly here alone until everyone else showed up. Did you guys talk to McKenna? How freaky is she? I'm going to have nightmares for another decade, I swear. So how weird is it being back? How have you two been? I haven't talked to anyone from Degrassi in years –"

Oh, god – it was Toby. He stumbled through the front door, blindly barreling past any romantic tension in the room. His nervous chatter was so familiar that it was more endearing than annoying to Emma, despite the fact that he totally wrecked an almost-sort-of-maybe moment.

"Hey, uh, Isaacs!" Sean smiled as he and Toby did that awkward man-hug thing that Emma had never understood. Why did guys have such issues with public affection? She'd had her doubts about Toby through the years, but – come on. They all knew Sean wasn't gay. "I've been alright. How about you? Finally kissed a girl, eh?"

"I want you to know that I have kissed over five girls since high school!" Toby grinned, wiggling a hand for emphasis. He'd always been so good at mocking himself – Toby embraced his faults, flashing them for the entire world to see. Emma had always been to self-aware, too self-conscious, for that.

"Look out, pimp!" Sean hooted happily. Toby turned to Emma, wrapping her in a fierce, shameless embrace.

"You look awesome, Em," he proclaimed warmly as they parted. Although his words carried none of the heaviness of Sean's moments earlier, they were sweet in their own Toby way.

"Thanks. You, too."

"You never were the greatest liar, Nelson," Toby smirked, turning his attention towards the meager spread laid out before them. "Wow, I must say, I am impressed," he said with a grin, gesturing towards the food. "It's good that they care so much, you know? Considering we had guns pointed at our faces ten years ago, and all – I don't know about you two, but this snazzy buffet is definitely helping me cope."

Another genuine laugh escaped, making Emma even more grateful for Toby's presence. With him around, it was easier to ignore the 'I love you's and 'You can't expect me to stop my fucking life for you's that hung in the air; overlook the bulimic hurricane brewing in her stomach.

"You haven't changed, Isaacs," Sean said, clapping his old friend on the back.

Toby stiffened; his voice grew momentarily serious. He looked at his old friends sadly and shrugged, "That's the sad part." Toby's sudden sobriety alarmed Emma, but before she could even react – it was gone.

"Well, I know one thing that hasn't changed," she said quickly in an attempt to alleviate the silence. "Kwan's obsession with Shakespeare – you'd think, in eight years, she would have coughed up enough for a new poster, or something."

With an appraising glance around the room, Sean nodded. "Macbeth – Hamlet – Twelfth Night – Othello." He sighed. "Same old worn out dead guys."

"Hey! I liked Twelfth Night!" Emma protested through a mouthful of crackers.

"Yeah, you were the only one," Toby dead-panned.

Emma retorted with a light slap on his shoulder; Toby stole a handful of strawberries in retaliation. And, just for a second, things weren't different. Their collective baggage was of the light, simple, carry-on variety. Rick wasn't dead; Sean wasn't in the army… Things were how they were supposed to be; how Emma had planned them out in her head late at night when she was unable to sleep. Everything was how it was before: before the shooting totaled their innocence; before Emma lost the underlying urge to save the world. Before Sean had up and ditched, shattering what little trust she'd had left in the power of love.

Before it had been a huge achievement for her to last this long in a room with him without bursting into tears. Before eating had morphed into a desperate, pathetic coping mechanism. Before Cause Girl had shattered into some jaded, shallow, bitter, unfamiliar shell.

Emma smiled brightly and nibbled on a hunk of cantaloupe. Ten years ago today, she nearly died. Yet, somehow, the presence of her high school sweetheart was freaking her out so much more than the previously suppressed memories of yellow paint and near-death experiences.

She swallowed and shrugged. Reason number three hundred and eight-seven she was a horrible person.

III.

Joining the army had altered Sean Cameron's life drastically in a lot of ways. He spent nine months out of every year battling for peace in stifling heat. He could sprint a mile in under five minutes and do more push-ups than he could keep count of. Tasks that might seem odd to your average Canadian citizen had become second nature to him: unrecognizable green mush for breakfast, dismantling pipe bombs before lunch, spending your afternoon betting on epic scorpion-versus-cockroach battles and pushing the real battles out of your mind.

It was a weird way of life, he had to admit, but he'd grown to love it. The early wake-ups and sweat dripping from his forehead as he greased down a two-ton tank and the dirty jokes his buddies from his squadron made at dinner – it was unconventional, and unhygienic at times – but it was his. For the first time since his days on Degrassi's basketball team, Sean was actually a part of something – something bigger, something productive. He wasn't just jacking laptops and racing cars anymore; there was finally a point to Sean's existence. He was damn good at his job, and despite all the drawbacks – the isolation from the majority of the planet, the shitty food, and did he mention the heat? – it was, overall, more satisfying than anything else Sean had ever known.

Not to say that his life was now an extended, heartwarming episode of M.A.S.H. – far from it. He risked his life every day to achieve peace for a people who weren't totally into it to begin with. He'd given up a lot to get where he was – any chance he'd ever had at a normal life.

Note Exhibit A – currently standing about a yard away from him, gulping down chunks of cantaloupe and seemingly unaware of how gorgeous she was. Sean had been openly staring at her for a while now; she looked up and he quickly averted his gaze.

"So, how much is this going to suck?" Toby asked cheerfully before downing a small pastry. "Hatzilakos making kissy faces at the cameras as some grief counselor tells the kids it's a bad idea to shoot people…"

Emma rolled her eyes and nodded. Sean was grateful she was speaking; it gave him an excuse to look at her. "Don't forget our awkward Grade 10 yearbook photos blown up to hideous proportions and pasted up along the walls."

Toby smiled and grinned; Sean smiled, too. This wasn't as difficult as he expected. If he could simply ignore Emma Nelson and the gun shots blasting through his thoughts, maybe he would make it out of this school alive.

That vaguely hopeful thought only led to a depressing one – what if he hadn't made it out the first time? What if that gun had been pointing forty degrees in the other direction? These were the kinds of questions that haunted him late into the night – even in Israel. He'd sweat and fidget and flip his pillow over and try to think happy thoughts… But it always came back to that damn gun. You'd think a guy who used much bigger machinery on a regular basis would be able to get a dinky 9mm out of his head.

Sean had never really dealt with a lot of the stuff that happened on that day. Ditching for Wasaga had only made it that much easier to avoid it all. As far as he could tell, everyone else had faced it some way – Emma, with… ugh, fucking disgusting, he didn't want to think about it; Toby talked out his feelings in intense therapy up until graduation; Jimmy got into art and drew all those twisted pictures. Sean, however, returned to Degrassi a year and a half later, after all the hardcore shit had passed by; ran straight into Emma's arms and never looked back.

Well…almost never.

They'd only spoken about the shooting once, a couple months after he'd returned. It was the three year anniversary – but save for a solemn moment of silence during homeroom, the day's significance went completely unnoticed by a majority of the student body. That is, except for Spinner – Sean didn't hear him say a single word all day, even though they had nearly every class together. And Toby, who spent the day in front of Rick's old locker, just…remembering. And, of course, Emma. It always came back to Emma.

He'd been late for math, and was rushing to get to class in time so Armstrong wouldn't bitch at him again. He'd taken a sharp right turn at the science hallway – and skidded to a stop almost directly in front of her.

She'd gasped, startled out of her memories. For a split second, Sean saw genuine terror in her eyes. "Oh – my God – for a second, I thought you were –" An awkward giggle; Emma avoided looking at him and pushed her bangs back.
"Are you – okay?" He'd asked stupidly. To this day, he was still working on not sounding like an inconsiderate idiot when he only meant to be comforting. "I – I mean –"

"Oh, me? Yeah, I'm fine – of course! Why wouldn't I be – you know. Fine?" She chirped, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from the tile where he'd once fought for her life. "Come on, walk me to bio?"

"I'm not okay. Not really." He'd muttered, unmoving. "I – I let him die, Em."

"You didn't let him die," Emma retorted bluntly. "You were fighting for my life, for Toby's life, for the lives of every student at this school –"

"Well, that didn't work out like I planned, did it?" Sean said bitterly.

Emma had sighed and gripped his hand. "You saved me."

"What if I hadn't?" Sean raised his gaze to the row of lockers before him. Mental images of blood splattered across them skittered through his brain. "What if –"

"What ifs aren't going to help anyone. What ifs didn't happen; they won't happen. What ifs are completely and totally pointless in nearly every respect, except for freaking you out." Emma informed him firmly. She pulled again on his arm; he let her lead him away. Away from the wet spot that formed on his jeans after it went off; away from the sirens and the stretchers and the chaos; away from the reverberating gun shots. Sean never finished that thought: what if I had let you die? To this day, he had yet to speak the words aloud.

"Emma – Toby – it's so good to see you!" Sean jerked back to reality at the sound of his former principal's voice; she was hugging her two former pupils warmly. Once she spotted Sean, her cheery demeanor diminished considerably. "Oh – Sean – how have you been?" Hatzilakos forced a smile, but her distaste was obvious. Sean may have been the school's hero in grade 10, but he never managed to make it out of Degrassi with a diploma – her son had seen to that.

"I've been great," Sean replied shortly. Better than Peter, at least, who was currently sitting on his ass in a twelve-by-twelve cell, jacking off to a picture of Emma. Oh, fuck – Sean's fists clenched in his pockets; he regretted that thought as soon as it materialized.

"That's fantastic," she said quickly, before turning back to the more successful alumnus. "How about you two – Emma, Snake told me you're teaching?"

"I'm a sub at a high school just outside Montreal," Emma replied flatly. "Hopefully I'll secure a permanent job in the next couple of years."

"I'm working in computer programming –" Toby cut in quickly, to avoid Emma's unabashed hatred of the woman who had nearly torn apart her family. Hatzilakos, however, was much more concerned with Emma's post-graduation life.

"That's fabulous, dear," she said with a smile, placing a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder. Emma treated her touch like road kill. "What subject do you want to teach?"

"Science. Not chemistry, though. I hate chemistry. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime, wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Hatzilakos?"

Hatzilakos's grin faded somewhat; Emma continued to openly glare. The only noise in the room was the muffled crunching of Toby gnawing on a cookie. Sean gulped and ran a hand over his bristly head; a nervous habit leftover from when he actually had hair to push away. From across the buffet, Toby caught Sean's eye and raised a single eyebrow, mouthing the word catfight.

"Yes, well, we best be headed to –" Hatzilakos hurriedly stepped towards the door, towards her adoring public and the perfection projected across the walls. Her hand was on the doorknob, she glanced back one last time at the remnants of the class that nearly broke her career – but something wasn't right. "Where's Jimmy – Jimmy Brooks? Hasn't he arrived by now? He RSVP'ed!"

Sean met her frantic concern with a lazy shrug. "I haven't seen him."

"Me, either," Toby began, "maybe he's, like, in the bathroom, or something – or maybe he got lost? I don't know, it's been a while since we've all been here, right? Or I guess he could have –"

"We'll just have to go on without him," Hatzilakos said, doing her best to hide her annoyance. What would a shooting memorial be without, as Toby had pegged him, the token cripple? "It's about to begin."

That's where she had it wrong, Sean decided – it had begun ten years ago, today. When Spinner and Jay had figured it'd be hysterical to splatter paint all over the school crazy. When Rick, desperate and pissed off and completely fucked-up, somehow determined his only remaining option to be a 9mm pistol. When Jimmy had forgotten his history book and doubled back before class to grab it from his locker. When Sean had approached Emma and Toby to ask how they were doing, after everything that had happened that morning – the three had set off for algebra class, rounded a corner, and – well, check the newspapers for the rest. Or ask Hatzilakos. She'd be happy to tell you.

It had all begun that day – so many chances at redemption, so many ways it could have all gone down a hell of a lot worse. And as Sean walked down the hallway, following the woman who'd expelled him and the kid who'd hugged Emma out on his front porch as Sean hurried away, wiping away tears and the girl who'd called her mom, no questions asked – it hit him. They'd all graduated, moved on – gotten jobs, forged relationships – attempted real life. But here, at this school – the freshmen art lining the walls, the paint-chipped lockers, the flyers for clubs and dances and charities – it was here. Ten years later; and Sean was only beginning to realize – none of them had ever really left.

IV.

Eleven-fifty-three. One minute left. Wait for it. Wait –

A single number changed on his expensive digital; it was now eleven fifty-four. Ante Meridian, Eastern Standard Time. It was ten years, exactly. Well, not exactly, he couldn't pinpoint it to the second, but – close enough. Ten years.

He ran through the moment in his mind, again, for the millionth time. He'd probably spent more time re-enacting it than sleeping, in his lifetime. It was all crystal clear, even now, even ten years later.

He closed his eyes, placed a hand on his old locker. It was the upper level; he had to stretch to reach it. They'd given him a new one, once he'd come back – closer to his homeroom, closer to the ground. Step one in making life easier for the cripple. The sight of a freshmen fumbling with his lock at his locker had nearly been enough to erase all the therapy he'd sat through since getting released – even though he hadn't opened it in over a decade, this place was still his. He'd once hung two pictures of Ash here – the two pictures that eventually led to their demise. He'd received countless stupid notes from Marco, stuffed into the cracks. Spinner had nearly goaded him into trading the precious piece of real estate, but luckily that had crashed and burned, like most of what Spin attempted during high school. He'd kissed Hazel here, every day before fifth period – she'd had math, and he had chem. Their paths had crossed here, at his locker, however briefly.

He'd dropped the history book into his bag when Rick had appeared. Coated in gunk, clutching a backpack, lips trembling. They'd talked – about what exactly was a little fuzzy – but he remembered the major gist of the conversation. He'd been worried, offered Rick his back, expressed how sorry he was at everything that had happened – Rick had twitched, blinked, anxiously informed him how wrong he was. Then he had pulled out his gun.

Everything, cliché as it sounds, had gone all deep and slow-motion. As if he'd been watching the entire thing from a crappy theatre seat, munching on Snow Caps and sucking down a soda. It had taken him a moment to process the weapon – he'd dropped the book, started backing away, mumbling whatever his brain could process in an attempt to get Rick to just put it away.

But it hadn't worked, Rick raised the gun, stuttering frantically – "You s-stabbed me in the b-back!" And it had dawned on him that there was no going back, Rick was outraged and armed; he was fucked. He'd stumbled backwards, faster and faster, and finally spun around, it was make or break, run for it, quick, just turn the corner and get the hell out of the school –

And then it was over. He hadn't even felt any pain, really – he was aware that he had been hit with a bullet in the small of his back, aware that it should probably hurt. Aware that he was tumbling to the ground. Aware of the cool, grimy tile against his cheek.

…And that was it. Next time he was aware of anything, it was the scratchy hospital sheets and the fact that he could no longer wiggle his toes.

His hands gripped his wheels; he expertly spun around and rolled forward a few feet – following the exact route he had taken, ten years ago to the minute. Along the same grimy tile.

It had been ten years since he'd stood up. Since he had taken a step. Since he had gotten checked out by a hot girl; since he had gone up a flight of stairs; since he had swam a lap or sprinted a mile or nailed a slam dunk. Ten years of rolling, wheeling, of ramps and awkward and pity. Ten years of laughing sheepishly as indifferent waiters pushed aside chairs. Ten years of looking up.

"Jimmy? Mr. Brooks? Jimmy – where have you been?" It was Hatzilakos, storming down the hall; hair teased about three feet and pink nails waving hysterically. She was followed by Toby, looking exactly as he remembered him; Emma, skinnier and blonder and more exhausted; and Sean, bald and bulky and slightly terrifying. "You were told to meet in Mrs. Kwan's room as soon as you arrived –"

"I was just…checking out the old stomping grounds, you know?" he offered a small smile, sheepish in his grief. "Sorry if I messed up the remembering and all that –"

"It's fine," Toby called from behind, shrugging and rolling his eyes. "You just missed out on some pretty fine dining, but I suppose that's your loss, eh?"

"We're on our way to the assembly thing right now," Emma informed him warmly.

"Yes, well, then, we best get going! We're running late enough as it is!" Hatzilakos shook out her hair and stomped away. Sean rolled his eyes and clapped Jimmy on the back.

"Hey, Jim, it's really good to see you – how have you been?"

"Alright," Jimmy shrugged, as Toby held out his hand and adjusted his glasses. "How 'bout all of you?"

Toby let out a long sigh as they shook hands and man-hugged. "Same old, same old, you know how it is. Ninety-nine problems, but a –"

"Aw, man, just stop there, please!" Jimmy laughed.

"You look great, Jimmy," Emma said with a smile, awkwardly leaning forward so she could awkwardly hug him. He should have been used to the halfway-hugs, by now, but… For a moment, Jimmy was taken out of the warm greetings, the friendly small chat, the old sort-of friends. For a moment, Jimmy couldn't avoid it, as he spent a majority of his adult life doing. For a moment, he was simply, once again, the token cripple.