peering up into the sky. “It’s getting late. Unless we can use the football field for its lights, it’ll be too dark soon.” I’m anxious to get the game going but none of the other girls—at least those still here—seem as concerned. But if anyone can appreciate finishing the game and officially getting the win, it’s Coach. “I think you should give your coach some space,” says the EMT working on him. “There’re more important things to worry about right now.” “But there were less than ten minutes left in the game, Coach. We should get it over with,” I say. But Coach shakes his head, grimacing in pain. He’s the only one getting help on the field since everyone else has made their way to the parking lot. The EMT works on his nose, which is now shaped like a parenthesis. Ambulances were quick to arrive on the scene though only one person was actually injured in the attack. At least one person who didn’t limp off into the forest. Nearly a dozen police cars arrived soon after but had trouble getting to the field because of all the traffic trying to leave school grounds. The police blocked the exit and redirected all the cars back to the lot, where order was restored. The cops slowly made their way through the crowd, taking names and statements of the incredible story. The few local reporters tried to do their own interviews but were herded away by the cops. That still didn’t stop several more news vans from arriving on the scene, shoving their cameras in front of anyone willing to talk. “The other team is leaving anyway,” Coach says. Our opponents finally climb aboard one of two busses surrounded by police. No matter what I say at this point, this game isn’t being finished today. Even my own teammates are being allowed to leave with their parents. I sigh as I walk away, sulking like Cassie when she doesn’t get her way. When I get closer to the parking lot, I look for any sign of the old man. But apparently he’s as long gone as the two attackers. Instead I have a closer view of the after-effects from the crowd’s panic. Plenty of people are still freaked out by the attack, plenty of girls from my team—some who I thought were as tough as me—cry in fear about what just happened. So many parents are hugging their kids that I feel like I’m back in pre-school instead of high school. I understand that the attack was unexpected but it’s an afterthought for me now. I don’t see the big deal for everyone else since I was the one who did all the fighting. The police and several reporters mill around asking questions about what happened. Everyone points at me. I suddenly wish I’d gone after the soldiers to avoid attention. A camera is thrust into my face but one of the cops escorts the reporter away while his partner takes out a pen and notepad. “Several witnesses said you confronted the assailants,” the officer says. “That wasn’t very smart, young lady. They could’ve seriously hurt you the way they did your coach.” “Do I look hurt to you?” I ask. “Believe me, the blood on my clothes isn’t mine.” “Then you were lucky,” he adds snidely. “Now tell me what happened; no detail is too minor if we hope to catch these guys.” I don’t bother to explain my feeling about the soldiers being long gone. I also don’t feel like explaining how I cheated death several times during the fight. I’m already annoyed that the cop chastised me for fighting back against the soldiers. I don’t understand my sudden indifference toward fighting and violence so I highly doubt the police will understand. Maybe once my adrenaline dies down I’ll be as upset as everyone thinks I should be. “I don’t remember much, it all happened so fast,” I say. The first part is a lie—I could probably walk them through the attack moment by moment if I wanted to waste my breath—but the second part is true enough. “People said they had swords and axes but you fought them with