In another life, I would've liked to get to know Clay, to really know him. We were close in eighth grade, I might've even liked him, but that's long past now. The Skye that cared about things like that died years ago. That Skye was too…emotional. She couldn't survive in the real world, so I put her out of her misery. I became this; plastic, heartless, uncaring. It's worlds better.

Clay was sprinting ahead of me, clearly trying to get the full five minutes I allowed him. I followed close behind, but much less passionately. What did I care if his time ran out? Inevitably, we got there in 40 seconds, so I suppose his plan worked pretty well. He still had 3 minutes and 39 seconds. Very smart Clay, verrrrrrry sneaky.

He ordered quickly; two shakes, medium, keep the change. We sat down in the booth, and…waited. For what? For me to confess? For him to start rattling off more intrusive questions? Well if he thought I was going to repent or forget about the revolver back at home, he was delusional.

He finally speaks, "Did you know Hannah Baker?"

"Yes, not personally, but yeah. I thought…she died two weeks ago, right?" I wondered why he was bringing her up. Everyone knew she killed herself, but what does that have to do with me? Is he going to try one of those stupid; 'oh she made such a horrible mistake,' or 'don't waste your life like she did,' or the classic, 'learn from the choices of others.'

"Yes, she did. But before she died, she made these tapes. The recorded hr final words." Clay closes his eyes, as if remembering something painful, "And the thirteen reasons why she killed herself."

"How do you know about these tapes?" I hadn't realized the two were close. There was so much I didn't know about him. How does he expect me to open up to a stranger?

"I was one of the reasons." He reopened his eyes, but now they were glossy with tears. Was this remorse? He was trying to save me for killing Hannah? I felt anger surge through me; I hated playing the redeemer. Why should I help others when they have only kicked me around my whole life?

"Well I can't help you there." I slide to the right of the booth, preparing to escape, but Clay grabbed my wrist.

"Please, I'm just trying to help." I noticed he had tried to wipe the tears away with the cuff of his jacket; he was trying to hold it together for me.

"You only have 3:09 left, Clay. I don't think there's anything else you can do." But I slide back into the booth anyways. "Besides, you knew Hannah Baker, you don't know me."

"Then explain. I just want to listen." He saw my hesitation and said, "Start with your parents."

I struggled with myself for a moment. If I talked to him, I'd be letting my guard down. I'd be exposing myself to more pain. If I didn't, he might never leave me alone. Then again, will he ever consider me letting me go if I elaborated on my home life? More likely he'd stalk me just to make sure I never pulled the trigger. A stalemate, great. I decided I'd tell him the story on the surface, but if things got too deep…Well I've always been good about redirecting conversation.

"There's not much to say. My dad's a drunk and a gambler; my mom's a cheater and an abuser. Whenever I cross paths with them," I pull up one of my sleeves, revealing a large purple-black bruise, "I get hurt. That's all, end of story."

"Can you elaborate?"

"What do you mean?"

"Describe a usual routine between you three."

"How I spend my time at home is none of you business." I glare at him, avoiding the deeper topics, hoping he won't plunge right into them.

"C'mon, why do they hit you?"

Dammit. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" he's leaning forward, my voice has gotten so small.

"It depends on whether or not they have enough drugs, it depends on how much I buy for them, it depends on how much I can afford," I can barely hear my own voice, "and it depends on whether or not I can cover for them for the cops." I swallow hard, my plastic armor already giving into the Skye I used to be. The weak Skye, the stupid Skye.

2:49 remains.