I fight every muscle in my body, begging me to collapse. Begging me not to go to school. To go anywhere else and hide out till tomorrow. But no matter when I go back, the fact remains, eventually I need to face the other people on the tapes.

I approach the entrance to the parking lot, a patch of ivy with a wide slab of etched stone welcoming us back to high school. COURTESY OF THE CLASS OF '93. I've walked past this stone many times over the past three years, but not once with the parking lot this full. Not once, because I have never been this late.

For two reasons.

Till today.

And two: Mr. Porter. If I sit there in first period, with him writing on the board or standing behind the podium, the only place I can imagine looking is in the middle of the room, one desk to the left.

One: I waited outside the post office doors. Waiting for them to open so I could mail a shoebox full of audiotapes. I used a brown paper bag and a roll of packing tape to rewrap it, conveniently forgetting to add my return address. Then I mailed the package to Jenny Kurtz, changing the way she'll see life, how she'll see the world, forever.

The empty desk of Hannah Baker.

People stare at her desk every day. But today, for me, is profoundly different than yesterday. So I'll take my time at my locker. And in the restroom. Or wandering through the halls.

Behind the trophy display are five freestanding banks of lockers, with offices and restrooms on either side. I see a few other students late for school, gathering their books.

I follow a sidewalk that traces the outer edge of the school parking lot. I follow it across the front lawn, through the glass double doors of the main building. And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through the empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

I reach my locker, lean my head forward, and rest it against the cool metal door. I concentrate on my shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles. I concentrate on my breathing to slow it down. Then I turn the combination dial to five. Then left to four, then right to twenty-three.

How many times did I stand right here, thinking I would never get a chance with Hannah Baker?

I spin the dial, clearing the combination.

Four.

Twenty-three.

I wonder what's in Hannah's locker right now. Is it empty? Did the custodian pack everything into a box, drop it in a storage closet, waiting for her parents to return? Or does her locker remain untouched, exactly as she left it?

I had no idea how she felt about me. No idea who she really was. Instead, I believed what other people said about her. And I was afraid what they might say about me if they knew I liked her.

How many times after the party did I stand right here, when Hannah was still alive, thinking my chances with her were over? Thinking I said or did something wrong. Too afraid to talk to her again. Too afraid to try.

Five.

It all began a few weeks ago, when a map slipped through the vents of my locker.

And then, when she died, the chances disappeared forever.

With my forehead still pressed against the metal, I turn my head just enough to look into the nearest hallway, toward the always-open door to first period. Mr. Porter's room.

"I need someone to take this to the front office for me."

Who am I going to see today? Besides me, eight people at this school have already listened to the tapes. Eight people, today, are waiting to see what the tapes have done to me. And over the next week or so, as the tapes move on, I'll be doing the same to the rest of them.

In the distance, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar voice. I slowly open my eyes. But the voice will never sound friendly again.

I close my eyes.

A chair squeaks, followed by footsteps leaving his room. My knees feel ready to crumble, waiting for the student to see me and ask why I'm not in class.

Mr. Porter's voice creeps down the hall straight at me. The muscles in my shoulders feel tight, heavy, and I pound my fist into the locker.

Right there, outside his door, is where I last saw Hannah Baker alive.

From a bank of lockers further up, someone clicks a locker shut.

Coming out of Mr. Porter's class, Steve Oliver nods his head at me and smiles. The student from the other locker rounds the corner into the hall, almost colliding into Steve.

She whispers, "I'm sorry," then moves around him to get by.

Steve looks down at her but doesn't respond, just keeps up his pace, moving closer to me. "All right, Clay!" he says. Then he laughs. "Someone's late for class, huh?"

Beyond him, in the hallway, the girl turns. It's Skye.

Steve walks up close, but I don't look at him. I motion for him to move to the side. "Talk to me later," I say.

The back of my neck starts sweating. She looks at me, and I hold her gaze for a few steps, then she turns to keep walking.

I want to say something, to call her name, but my throat tightens.

I step away from my locker and watch her continue down the hall.

Last night, on the bus, I left without talking to Skye. I wanted to talk with her, I tried to, but I let her slide out of the conversation. Over the years, she's learned how to avoid people. Everyone.

Part of me wants to ignore it. To turn around and keep myself busy, doing anything, till second period.

But Skye's walking down the same stretch of hall where I watched Hannah slip away two weeks ago. On that day, Hannah disappeared into a crowd of students, allowing the tapes to say her good-bye. But I can still hear the footsteps of Skye Miller, sounding weaker and weaker the further she gets.

Skye's footsteps are growing louder now. And the closer I get to her, the faster I walk, and the lighter I feel. My throat begins to relax.

A flood of emotion rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I pass the open door to Mr. Porter's room and, in one hurried glance, pull in more than I expected. The empty desk near the center of the room. Empty for two weeks and for the rest of the year. Another desk, my desk, empty for one day. Dozens of faces turn toward me. They recognize me, but they don't see everything. And there's Mr. Porter, facing away, but starting to turn.

And I start walking, toward her.

Two steps behind her, I say her name.

"Skye."

I keep walking.