Disclaimer: Shoulda', woulda', coulda', but didn'… erm, don't own anything created my Maggie Stiefvater. I also don't own Staples. That was easy!

Wait, are they really making Shiver into a movie? This could be bad…

Ben

-2° F

I didn't even know it could get this cold in Mercy Falls, but it did. We were scraping negative digits, and it was only December. Ironic how it can be 10 below and school is still in session. As students, we deserve some sort of sympathy when it's this cold. I don't care if there's not enough snow for a snow day, just give us a "freezing-you-butt-off" day or something.

Anyway, it's winter vacation. Thankfully it wasn't one of those vacations where the teachers dump you with loads of work and say "Have fun on vacation!" This time, none of the teachers in the school seemed too anxious to grade papers when the got back, so I had no means by which to entertain myself during the long two weeks. So instead of lazing around or procrastinating, I decided I'd try taking up a job. I got one at Staples, being one of those sales people who walk around asking people if they need help finding things.

I've learned all sorts of useless nonsense, such as that a ruler is insanely easy to break, and sharpies don't come individually sold anymore. I've also learned that you should never go around and press all of the Easy buttons all at the same time. You'll get some pretty dirty looks, trust me.

One of the downsides to working at Staples is the people you have to work with. It's your job to find the stupidest customer in the entire store, put on a fake smile, and ask them if they need help finding something. Some people can't even remember what they're looking for, while some others will get defensive if you offer your help. Okay, storm off looking for something you won't find. It's not like I'm getting paid to help you or anything.

I hadn't been working very long at Staples – about three days – when disaster struck. I didn't really think that a being sales person was a dangerous job, but apparently it was.

I guess it was my fault. It was a slow day, and not much was getting done. I saw a cute girl looking at something and frowning – that's the code word for "sales person needed". Lucky day, I though, being my usual foolish and stupid self. Damn you, curiosity.

I woke up several hours later in the emergency room.

Erin

My stupid brother somehow managed to break my three-hole puncher, and he refused to pay for it. I thought they were indestructible. How the heck did he manage to break it? Beside the point, I drove myself to the nearest Staples to get a replacement. Simple, right? Not.

I pride myself with independence, and had no problem figuring out where the hole punchers were. The only problem was that one was three dollars more than the other, and as far as I could tell they were identical. I had one of the three-hole punchers in my hand and was inspecting it when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. From my vantage point, it looked like Yam sneaking up on me. I was already really pissed off at him at that point, and I refused to stand for anymore of his childish behavior.

Gripping the three-hole puncher tighter, I whirled around… and clocked the sales person standing behind me.

"Oh… oh my god," I gasped, shocked.

The guy I'd hit's eyes were squeezed shut. He swayed slightly on the spot. "That," he said weakly, "is gonna hurt in the morning," and he collapsed to the ground.

As you can imagine, I freaked out and called 911. The emergency people came with their sirens blazing, the whole thing. They asked some questions and took the guy I'd knocked out to the hospital. Feeling like it was my responsibility, I went with them. The paramedics did all sorts of things that you see in movies, and they talked using professional medical words that I can't even pronounce. The entire time I thought I had killed the guy.

The next few hours after that were a blur. The doctors tested him, reassured me that he only had a minor concussion, and left the unconscious Staples sales person in a hospital bed while they attended to someone else.

It was the first time that I actually got a good look at my "victim". He was about my age is not a big older, and definitely taller. His hair was so dark that I couldn't tell if it was brown or black. It was really awkward to just sit there next to an unconscious person, so I got up and grabbed the remote to the TV in the corner and flipped it on. The only thing that wasn't a soap opera or a cliché romance was a horror movie in which aliens invaded the world. I leaned back in my chair and settled in for a long wait.

The alien movie was so creepy that when the Staples boy finally came around, I nearly fell out of my chair in fright. It took me a second or so to calm down, and by them he had blearily opened his eyes.

The boy winced slightly and his hand jumped up to touch his head. He blinked a few times, and looked at the screen.

"Aliens?" he asked, a bit confused.

I quickly turned it off. "Yeah," I said hurriedly. "I had to wait a while."

The boy frowned. "How long was I out?" he asked.

"About… three hours," I said, checking my watch.

Looking around the room properly for the first time, the boy seemed surprised to be in a hospital. He tried to sit up, but exhaled sharply and lay back down, biting his lip. He sighed. "You called 911?" he asked, squinting up at me.

I nodded. "I wasn't really sure what to do," I explained lamely. "Uh…" There was a long pause. "Sorry?"

The boy propped himself up on his elbows. "So you're the one who threw the three-hole puncher at me," he said, more of a fact than a question.

He was staring at me. Well, not really staring. More like… scrutinizing. Sizing me up. It was a bit unnerving, yet at the same time a bit flattering.

"I didn't throw it," I muttered defensively. "I just… whacked you in the head with it. By accident," I added hastily.

There was another slightly longer pause. Gritting my teeth, I stuck out my hand. "My name's Erin," I offered. Before I really knew what was going on, the boy had whipped out a sharpie and was writing on my outstretched palm.

"I'm Ben," he said, giving me back my hand. On my palm was scribbled a phone number. I stared at it stupidly for a few moments. "It's my phone number," the guy named Ben said patiently. "I figured you're an interesting person if you go around throwing hole punchers at people."

"Hitting, not throwing," I corrected, still a bit out of it. "And I don't do that all the time."

Ben smiled and leaned back on his pillows. In a few seconds he was passed out again.