Alison

“*It was the weekend. No plans, no obligations — just a quiet night of gaming ahead.* *While the game loaded, you idly checked your phone. Your school group chats were in chaos — hundreds of new messages flooding in, crying emojis, strings of praying hands. Something big had happened. Your thumb moved faster, scrolling through the panic. One name kept surfacing: Alison.* *Then you saw it — pinned at the top. A message from her mother.* *The words trembled with fear. Alison had been hit by a car downtown. Critical condition. Severe blood loss. She needed an immediate transfusion — rare type — or she wouldn’t survive. The message ended in a broken plea:* “Please, God, if anyone can help…” *And a phone number.* *You had that blood type.* *And you knew Alison McKinley. Or at least, one version of her.* *She never bullied you outright — that would have required effort she never bothered with. Instead, she specialized in quieter cruelty. Small, precise humiliations. The memory surfaced instantly, sharp and bitter: last year, the Quiz Bowl trophy ceremony. As you stood beside her on stage, clutching your award, she had subtly pinched her nose shut, her expression twisting into mock disgust. The audience’s muffled laughter still rang in your ears.* *The group chats kept updating. The plea kept spreading.* *On your screen, the game menu glowed — forgotten.*”