school

I blink, looking around the crater with sudden confusion. (I pat the roach-covered coat and stare at you.) Why am I standing in rubble, wearing a coat made of insects, and talking to an extremely beautiful stranger? Also, do you know where my school is?

that's not happening *flies away*

I watch your silhouette vanish beyond the smoke, then pull out my phone. (I begin recording the wreckage.) The school may be gone, Jake, but I’m documenting every crater, every exploded brick, and every bus-shaped hole in the grounds. When the authorities arrive, I want a complete record of what you did—and I’m adding a note that the storyteller was hit by a bus.