Author's note - this is short -- so I'm posting it a day early, tomorrow, on national pot day - I'll post another chapter. I just felt like I needed a chapter brake - kinda like a commercial break, to further the plot. So I lied - what happens in this chapter won't impact you at all. It's basically Beaver/Taylor. I don't know why I feel like they're relationship should progress faster than Jackson/Melissa. I think both Jackson and Melissa would like to take things slow and debate their feelings for eachother. But this whole panic fiasco - it brings people closer together. The next chapter is the conclusion to this whole ordeal - and after that is the recovery. That's all I have right now. But enjoy this little bit right here.

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"This can't go on forever," Nathan said. "When are you gonna just give it up?"

"When more of them are dead," Chad answered.

"Look, you shot Eric, alright?" Nathan said, gesturing to Eric, who was still lying on the ground, his eyes drifting close slowly and quickly fluttering open. Melissa had insisted on keeping Eric awake, unsure of how bad the injury had to be for sleep or unconsciousness to be fatal. Eric was now gripping his arm tightly, trying to stop the blood flow, but still his grip would slacken when his eyes closed; everytime his eyes snapped open they'd be accompanied by a grimace of pain.

"That's not enough," Chad said, pacing back and forth once more in front of the teacher's desk. "Shooting isn't going to make them feel how I felt; how we felt."

"So let everybody else go," Jackson suggested. "There's no reason to torture those that know what you're going through, right? It's not like you're planning on shooting them...oh wait, you've already done that, haven't you?"

"Shut up," Chad shouted, waving his gun toward Jackson. "You can't talk to me like that!"

Jackson shrugged, rising to his feet. Melissa, albet still in shock, Marshal's blood already crusted around her hands, tried to get him to sit back down but Jackson brushed her hands away and strode forward. "We are hostages," he told Chad, and then gestured to the half empty classroom. "Why don't you tell me how many kids in here actually made your life worst?" Jackson leaned forward but Chad remained silent. "Right. So why are you in here and not out there?"

"I-I" Chad stuttered but he had no real answer.

"You're scared," Jackson told him. "We know that, but we're scared too. You've just shot two innocent bystanders. How many bullies did you shoot? How many bullies do you plan on shooting in this room?"

"You can't talk to me like this," Chad shouted at Jackson. "You're not supposed to talk to me like this..."

"You haven't killed anyone," Nathan said, standing too. "Give it up and you won't get life in jail. Bullying is a very serious matter, maybe they'll understand..."

"Give me the gun," Jackson said.

"No," Chad said, moving forward quickly, hitting Jackson in the face with the butt of his gun. Jackson hadn't prepared himself for when Chad would get violent, and he reeled back, stunned; wiping at his bloody nose. "Now sit back down," Chad said to Jackson before throwing a look at Nathan.

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"Are you okay, Beeve?" Taylor asked, glancing up at Beaver's face. They were laying on the table, their legs over the side. Even though the buzz of police talk was all around them everything seemed so quiet, almost peaceful.

"Yeah," Beaver rasped. His breathing had become heavier, difficult. He lifted a hand to his chest, laying it heavily beside Taylor's face. "No," he gasped.

"Is it...is it your asthma?" Taylor asked quietly, lifting her head from his chest, and pushing herself into a sitting position. "Beaver, tell me. What's happening?"

"I'm sorry," Beaver gasped, struggling to sit. Taylor helped him, gripping his arm tightly enough to hurt. "I tried not to think about it but..." he paused trying desperately to control his breathing. "I get--"

"Shhh," Taylor interrupted. "You don't have to explain," she told him softly. "It's okay, Beeve," she said, rummaging through her purse.

"What are you doing?" Beaver gasped.

Taylor pulled an inhaler from her purse triumphantly. "Jackson gave me the inhaler you'd left at his house. He said you'll need it sooner or later." She held it to Beaver's mouth and Beaver took it in his own hand, puffing at it hungrily.

Slowly his breathing relaxed. "We could've stopped this," Beaver muttered, grasping the inhaler hard in his hands.

Taylor took his hands in her own hands, gently prying the inhaler from his trembling fingers and setting it onto the table. She held his hands tightly, taking in his trembling. "You can't blame yourself, Beaver. You don't even know this kid."

"No," Beaver said, basking in the warmth of Taylor's hands, the strength that he found there. "I bumped into him before all of this," he mumbled, looking away from her. "I felt the gun, I didn't do anything."

Taylor was stroking his hands with her thumbs, a gentle soothing motion that Beaver could vaguely remember his mother doing before she'd been fired and spent their life insurance on booze to will away her current status; but his hands didn't stop shaking. She tightened her grip on one hand, raising her other hand to stroke his cheek, gently ushering him to look back at her. "Nobody blames you," she murmured, pulling him forward into a tight embrace.

"I do," Beaver mumbled against her shoulder.