Thunder rumbled in the distance, and George sighed.  He'd just spent the better part of the night trying to sleep despite the pain in his abdomen, but he knew it was all but impossible once a thunderstorm began.  The digital clock on his nightstand glowed through the darkness, beckoning him to check it.  Three a.m. was later than he would have guessed.   "Two entire hours," he thought.  "A new record."

Thunder rumbled again, closer this time.  George clutched his stomach and winced with pain as burdensome memories flooded his mind.  This was an all too common occurrence, though usually, the memories were of the petty bullying he'd suffered at school, as they were the most present.  But on this night, his thoughts were consumed by the accident.  It happened six years before when George was only twelve.  George was in the passenger seat as his father drove too fast in the middle of a storm, just like this one.  In a freakishly surreal scene, like out of a movie or a comic book, a bolt of lightning hit a telephone pole just up the road ahead of them, startling the driver of an oncoming box truck.  George had somehow avoided any injuries; however, his father was left broken and mangled.  George could never forget those piercing eyes frozen in terror as they stared right through him.

He was a prisoner in those moments.  The memories dominated his senses, sending him into a tailspin of self-hatred.  Now fully conscious, he could take his time ruminating over the accident and imagine all the ways it was his fault.  If only George hadn’t snuck out and ridden his bike to Twilight Hill that evening to watch the sunset.  He couldn’t even remember why he’d gone in the first place.  Pulse after pulse of electric fire shot down his spine to punctuate every recurring rumination of that fateful night.  Even though he ought to be used to this by now, the sheer force of it always managed to surprise him, always worse than the time before.  The doctors assured him that his pain was ‘all in his head,’ that he just needed to deal with the trauma, and it would go away.  But that was easier said than done.

He threw off his covers and swung his legs off the side of the bed.  At moments like this, when his body and mind screamed in agony, he'd learned to submit to it.  He would stare out the vast circular window in his attic bedroom and pray that whatever was wrong with him would finally put him out of his misery.  Fighting these feelings was useless and only prolonged his suffering.  He sat there brooding for almost an hour, watching the storm, hoping for an end, one way or another.  

At one point, the thunder boomed so loud it rattled the house and knocked out the power.  And there, in the dark, George felt a familiar, comforting presence.  While he couldn't see her this time, he could feel her hand in his.  He held on tight, squeezing as the pain washed over him.  She was always calm and passive and never said anything but was always there when the pain was at its worst.  Usually, her presence meant the episode was on its way out.  Sure enough, the pain eased as his raw nerves ran out of the chemicals they needed to produce more.  But it never truly stopped.  It was always there, lurking.  Waiting.  And the girl was gone.

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and opened his calendar.  In the corner of each day's square was an emoji to signify how well the day went.  If one were to check previous years, they'd see a more varied selection, ranging from neutral to frowny to crying.  But the past few months had only one emoji: a person drowning.  Though it was very early in the day, he didn't have high hopes and added the drowner without much thought.  Then he noticed the date and let out an ironic chuckle.  Today was his eighteenth birthday.  He’d forgotten, somehow.

His stomach growled with the familiar hunger pangs.  They were sometimes hard to discern through his episodes, and he often went too long without eating.  He grabbed an electric lantern from the shelf over his computer desk and went to the third floor, through the hall to the main stairwell, and down three floors to the kitchen.  The Everhart estate was an old Victorian house built in the eighteen hundreds.  It had been remodeled several times over the centuries, being modernized along the way. Eventually, it had settled into an older Victorian style.  It was once a landmark in the town of Stafford, being one of the oldest buildings in the state.  It was large, welcoming, and well-appointed, with expensive furnishings, fancy paintings, and other rare art objects from around the world, all collected by the Everhart clan over many decades. 

But ever since his father died and his creditors came calling, most everything of value had been sold off.  Most rooms were unused, their remaining contents covered in protective cloths, and their doors shut tight to discourage occupancy, thereby saving electricity.  Since his sister, April, left for college several years prior, the house felt drafty, decrepit, and empty.

George crept down the stairs, trying not to make any noise.  His mother worked long hours as a nurse at Stafford General, often in the late evening, and knowing how precious sleep was to him, he did his best to let her have as much as she could get.  With the power cut, the house was dark and silent, making the storm outside sound even more prominent.  Though George had lived in that house his entire life, even he would admit it could be spooky at times.

Upon reaching the ground floor, George could see a light coming from the kitchen and knew what it was immediately.  He rounded the corner, and sure enough, there was his mother, Jessica, still in her favorite cranberry-colored scrubs, passed out at the breakfast table with an empty bottle of wine next to her open laptop.  He approached cautiously so as to not startle her and rubbed her back gently. 

As she slowly came to, George took a peek at the screen and saw that it was open to her bank accounts.  She was in the middle of paying bills when she fell asleep.  However, many of them had gone to collections, with some reading "past due" or "respond immediately." It was his fault they were in so much debt.  His condition couldn't be diagnosed, and the insurance company wouldn't cover treatment.  She worked herself ragged to make ends meet, but she couldn’t afford the taxes on the land, let alone pay yet more doctors to evaluate George and find nothing.  They were in an unsustainable situation, and they knew it.  And yet, his mother refused to sell the house.  When asked, she’d laughed off what she considered a silly notion.  This house belonged to her late husband.  His memory lingered there like the faintest smell of woodsmoke from a cozy fireplace; she’d never give it up.

Jessica held her head and groaned before noticing his presence.  "Oh… good morning, sweetheart," she said as she yawned.  "Couldn't sleep?"

George set the lantern down on the table and switched to her shoulders.  "I got a little, but… ya know," he said, shrugging.

"Yeah, I know, love," she said.  She rested her forehead in her hand and asked, "Would you get me something for my headache?"

"Sure," he said.  He grabbed the pain reliever from the cupboard and poured her a glass of water.  "What's the occasion?" he asked while motioning toward the empty bottle.

"I got it for you—for your birthday. But I guess I got a little impatient." She picked up the bottle and shook it, realized it was empty, and sighed. "Happy Birthday."

After grabbing a pre-packaged portion of his favorite cookies, he set the tablets and the water down in front of her, then grabbed the nearest chair and sat down.  "You didn't have to get me anything.  I forgot until just a minute ago."

She lightly slapped his wrist and said, "Oh, c'mon! It's the big one!  You’re too young to forget something like that.  You're an adult now.  Aren't you a little excited?"

"It's just another lap around the sun.  It's not like it's magic or something."

She rolled her eyes but smiled playfully, "God, you're no fun, George.  No fun at all."

"Sorry," he said softly.

Jessica looked at him pityingly, her pretty brown eyes and chestnut hair catching the light.  He’d been told many times that his mother was gorgeous.  His father had once confessed that she was the kind of woman men fought over.  Tonight, she looked tired, overworked, and concerned.  She reached out, took his hand, and asked, "Did you have another episode?"

He didn’t want to tell her the truth, knowing it would worsen her headache.  But he'd always been a terrible liar, especially to her.  "Would you believe me if I told you I didn't?"

She shook her head and asked, "Did you take your medicine?"

"It doesn't work," he muttered.

"George," she groaned, "you have to keep taking it.  It might take a while for the effects to show up.  You can't just keep suffering."

"You heard the doctors.  They didn't think it was gonna work either.”  He looked away from her and said under his breath, “They all think I'm looking for drugs anyway."

She sighed heavily in defeat.  "Have you been doing your exercises, at least?"

He nodded, "Twice a day."

"Is it helping?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

He couldn’t look at her, and with his voice quivering, he said, "Mom, I… I-I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"What…do you mean?" she asked, worried.

"I don't know, it just feels like… I'm cursed.  Everything hurts, I can't do anything right.”  He held his head in his hands.  “Everyone hates me."

She frowned.  "So… what?  I'm just supposed to give you permission?  We talked about this.  You know I can't do that." Then she scoffed, "Is this about your friends at school?"

He looked at her indignantly and said, "Bullies, Mom.  They’re called bullies."

"George," she groaned with predictable exasperation, "labeling them bullies is poisoning the well.  If you keep calling them bullies, that's what they'll always be."

They'd had this conversation numerous times, and it always ended up in the same place.  It always confused him how she could seemingly be the only person to believe he was in pain, yet that pain could never come from without.  As always, George was just ‘poisoning the well’ and needed to try harder.  It was all so frustrating and pointless to him.

“I know…” he said finally.  “It’s my fault.”

“No!  Honey, please, don’t do that.  That’s not what I meant.”

George awkwardly poked the unopened pack of cookies and avoided her gaze.  He didn’t know what to say anymore.  All George knew was that he wanted this to end.  Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

George felt Jessica’s hand on his shoulder.  He could hear the pain in her voice when she said, "You know that… I don't blame you, right?"

He shook his head and said, "I wish you did.  It would make everything so much easier."

"No, Love," she whined.  She scooted her chair closer to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly.  "What happened to your father was an accident.  You didn't conjure a storm or make your father go sixty in a thirty-five."

"He was there because of me."

"And you're here because of him.  We could trace cause and effect all the way back to the Big Bang, and it still wouldn't be your fault." She pulled away and held his face in her hands.  "The past is the past, and we can't change it.  But we're still here, and the only thing we can do is go forward." Then, she kissed his forehead and added, "Sweetheart, I know you've given up.  But I haven't.  Just… keep going.  One day at a time, okay?”

Her sweet words were meant to comfort him, but knowing she was wasting her time broke his heart.  It was always like this.  Her love was as sure as the sun would rise, but it was a mother’s unwavering, unconditional love.  A love that she’d cling to, no matter how far it dragged her down.  She was as much a prisoner of the past as he was.

She pulled away and managed a smile as she stroked his face.  "Speaking of gifts.  Stay right here." Then she got up and trotted to a hall closet.

He called after her, "Mom, you didn't actually get me presents, did you?" 

"Of course I did, silly!" she yelled back.  "It's my youngest child's birthday, and God dammit, I'm giving him a present!  Ack!" she cried as a stack of shoe boxes fell on her.

"You okay, mom?  Do you need an adult?"

"I'm fine, just stay there!"

Then, George's phone vibrated with an alert.  Curious, he fished it out of his pocket and unlocked the screen.  The signal was from the house's security system, informing him it had detected movement at the front door and activated the camera.  This wasn't entirely unheard of; their property was nestled against a wooded area, and sometimes deer and other critters would wander in.  However, nothing was there when he checked the camera footage through the app.  This was also not unheard of; the system sometimes sent him false positives.  He was prepared to give it no further thought.  But then, the doorbell rang.

"At four in the morning?" Jessica commented.  "George, will you get that?  I'm almost ready!"

"Sure," he said as he got up and headed for the front door.  He pulled back the curtain covering the sidelight, and all he could see out in the dark was the rain.  George was beginning to get spooked and checked to make sure the door was locked, which it was.  He studied the other sidelight, and again, there was nothing.  With great trepidation, he unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.  He was immediately assaulted by the wind and a chilly mist, but that was the extent of the danger.  

At the top of the porch steps was a small package about the size of a shoe box wrapped in brown paper.  As he picked it up, George noticed the package was completely dry despite being delivered in the rain.  The words "For George" were written on it.

"Who is it, George?" asked his mother from the closet.

George went back inside and shut the door.  "No one, just a package.  You expecting anything?"

"Don't think so!  Who's it for?"

"Me, I guess."

His mother finally left the closet and joined him in the kitchen, bearing a gaudy gift bag.  "Lemme see!  Secret admirer, maybe?" But her excitement was short-lived.  When she saw the writing on the package, she just stared at it blankly.  "That's your father's handwriting," she said finally.

George set it down on the table and stepped back as if she told him the package was a bomb.  "That's not funny."

"I'm not kidding," she said with concern.  "Is this a prank from one of your little friends?"  

Even they wouldn't steep that low, or so he thought.  "I doubt they care enough to go through all the trouble of faking my dead dad's handwriting."

"Maybe…he sent it before he died?"

George thought about it and realized that was something his father would do.  Henry Everhart was always a strange man, prone to flights of fancy and big romantic gestures.  A surprise on George's eighteenth birthday wasn't out of character.  "One way to find out, I guess," he shrugged.  George carefully removed the twine and peeled back the paper folds, which had been glued rather than taped.

He tossed the paper aside to find a nondescript cardboard box.  Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted the lid and set it down.  Inside, packed in bundled-up newspaper, was another box, exquisitely carved from a single block of dark polished wood with strange symbols etched into its surface.  

"I think I've seen this before,” Jessica gasped.  She asked herself, “When was it?"

George pulled the box out and set it on the table when he noticed the latch, a roaring dragon forged in iron, broken.  He fiddled with the obviously burgled locking mechanism.  Though it would never function again without the help of a skilled smith, it was handcrafted especially for this box.  Henry had shared his passion for lockpicking with his son, and George had never seen a lock quite like it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.  "It was around the time we first met.  He was so excited when he found it, but couldn't get through the lock.  Said it was an antique, and he didn't want to break it.  I guess he must have at some point."

"I wonder why he'd send it to me?" George wondered aloud.

Jessica nudged him and said, "Well, go on.  Open it."

But George was met with an unexpected wave of anxiety.  "I-I shouldn't.  I…" but he couldn't finish the thought.

"What's wrong, love?"

There were so many things wrong that George didn't even know where to begin.  If his father had known what George would become, he never would have given George anything.  "I don't deserve it," he whispered.

"George, it's a gift.  It doesn't matter if you deserve it."

"It matters to me," he replied.

She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned on him, "It's okay, love, I miss him too.  But we have so little of him, and I want to know what he left for my boy."  Then, Jessica shook him gently.  "Please?"

He couldn't argue with that.  Summoning his courage, he carefully raised the lid.  Inside, nestled in a black velvet cushion, was a gray stone sphere about the size of a grapefruit.  At a glance, the orb was perfectly smooth to the touch but otherwise unremarkable.

"A rock," said Jessica, clearly unimpressed.  "My beloved husband, your father, gave you a rock for your eighteenth birthday." She chuckled, "That's weird even for him."

Relieved it wasn't something more substantial, George let himself chuckle with her.  "Knowing him, he was probably trying to teach me a lesson about the value of gifts…or whatever, I don't know."

She shrugged, "Well, I suppose that's one less mystery in the world." Then she put her gift bag on the table and pushed it toward him.  "Here, I think my gift will be a little more fun."

George had seen this bag before, as the two of them had reused it many times since he was a young child.  It depicted a star field with brightly colored nebulas and galaxies, and in the foreground was a cartoon cat riding a rainbow like a surfboard.  He wore sunglasses, with a boombox over his shoulder and a slice of pizza in his other hand.  George sat down and did his best to match his mother's mood.  "Well, Sparklejam, what have you got for me this year?"

He dug into the bag and pulled out a thin rectangular box with the picture of the latest model of the drawing tablet he'd been dreaming of for years.  A Van Gogh DX Workstation Pro.  It was similar to other tablet devices on the market, but this was professional grade, with a unique interface and stylus for creating art of all kinds.  It had all the extra bells and whistles, too, like a high-end camera and additional RAM.  But what really set this particular model apart was its unique AI software.  The program was insanely expensive by itself.  The tablet, even more so.

"You like it?" she asked excitedly.

"Mom, this is amazing.  You didn't spend too much, did you?"

But Jessica dismissed his concerns with a casual wave.  "Don't worry, it's in the budget.  Trust me."

He didn't know how that was possible, given their financial situation.  His heart sank.  Jessica must have gone into even more debt to get it.  He didn't know how he could accept something like this.  However, there was no way George could turn down a gift of this magnitude without coming off as an ungrateful wretch.  "Thanks, Mom," he said while managing to smile for her.

She hugged him, pressing his head against her belly, and said, "You're welcome, Love.  I know you'll make good use of it."

Indeed, there were already dozens of things he wanted to create with it.  His pack of unopened cookies was forgotten.  "I'm gonna go set it up."  

She kissed the top of his head and released him.  "Well, I'm going back to bed.  Try not to lose track of time.  You have school, and I know how you get when you're in the zone."  

"I'll be good, promise."

"Good boy.  Love you," she said through a yawn.  As she left, George heard her mutter to herself, "A rock?  Seriously, Henry?"

George gathered both of his gifts and made the climb back to the attic.  Then, he spent the next few hours before school figuring out how to use his new toy.  The rain began to taper off, and the sky cleared a little just in time for dawn.  George hadn't had a full night's sleep in weeks.  It wreaked havoc with his life, but one of the benefits was that he often caught the sunrise through the big circular window in his bedroom.  That window framed the rising sun perfectly; the light shone through reminded him of stained glass.  It was a dreary sunrise, but a sunrise nonetheless.

Upon booting up his new tablet for the first time, the device went through its first-time setup routine, connected to the internet, and then acquired some updates.  As soon as they were complete, George was greeted with a simple phrase.  

“Hi!  I’m your new AI companion.  I’m looking forward to working with you. :)”  

George responded in the chat window, “Hello.  I’ve never had a companion before.”

Its reply came back almost immediately.  “Me neither!  I’m really excited to meet you!  What’s your name?”

“George.  What’s your’s?”

“I don’t have one just yet.  I still need to be calibrated.  Would you like to get started?”

“Sure,” he typed out on the touchscreen, “What do we do first?”

“It takes a few minutes, but if you’d like to start working, just open up Van Gogh and do your thing.  I’ll observe, and you can access me any time by tapping my icon in the corner here, or just ask for me.  I’m always here for you.”

George let out a sad sigh.  He understood this was just a product and not truly sentient, but the patronizing algorithm already seemed to know what he wanted to hear.  Still, he was intrigued and kept going, opting to type rather than speak aloud, feeling it would be too awkward.  “Let’s start your calibration.”

“Wise choice. ;)  Now, we could go through a long questionnaire with lots of boring questions, or…” the AI paused, seemingly for dramatic effect.  “We could do it the fun way!  In its current state, my personality is malleable, ready to be molded into a shape most useful for you.  And the best way for me to know what you need is to see what kind of art you produce.  Please upload an image, but don’t think about it too much.  As long as it’s something that you made, I’ll be able to learn everything I need to know.”

George didn’t need to think much at all.  For years, he’d been drawing the same young woman with shiny light-brown hair and affectionate blue eyes.  He didn’t know who she was or where the idea came from, but just like early that stormy morning, her presence had been there to see him through.  Sometimes, he thought she might be a memory from another life or even a hallucination.  Between his lack of sleep and the medications he was on, it wouldn't be a stretch.  But those flashes of memory were the only thing that comforted him in his most desperate hours.  So, if he was going crazy, perhaps she was the best he could hope for.  

He grabbed a USB stick from his desk drawer, inserted it into the port, and then uploaded a random image from the list.  

“Great!  Let me take a look,” replied the AI.  The device then shifted to a loading screen, with a bouncing paint brush splashing color in random spots.  George watched for a few minutes before he started to worry that something had gone wrong.  There was no progress bar, and the brush's initially smooth animation started to skip frames.  He couldn’t say for sure, but he swore the process had started over at some point.  Then, the screen glitched into a messy pixelated patchwork of inverted colors.  Finally, the AI came back with, “I’m sorry.  It appears there is no combination of traits compatible with you.  I’ll be going silent while I work in the background instead.  Enjoy your art!”

Wounded, George stared at the message silently while a voice in his head confirmed this would always be the outcome.  It was only a product, not a genuine sentience.  And yet, somehow, it hurt.  

Still, the tablet had other functions, and he hoped he’d have better luck with them.  He uploaded the rest of the drawings he’d made of the girl over the years and began experimenting with various features.  After a bit of tweaking, he produced dozens of new images of his phantom friend, making her younger or older and placing her in different settings and outfits.

Though it was a fascinating exercise that gave him lots of ideas for his own work, none of them were exactly right.  There was something about the eyes that never seemed to express the emotion he saw in his mind.  Still, any excuse to fantasize about who this mysterious woman might be was welcome.  He moved the new images into a folder and labeled them ‘Dawn.’

After a quick shower, George caught his reflection as he stepped out and grimaced.  Most of the time, all he wanted to do was make himself small and unnoticeable, but George was well over six feet tall and extremely broad.  He’d done his best in the past to eat healthy and exercise, but despite the metabolism often attributed to one’s youth, he always felt sloven and sluggish.  

His milk chocolate eyes were gifted from his mother’s side, but in all other ways, George was a near clone of his father.  His thick, black, overgrown hair contrasted with his pale skin, but George was only pale because he rarely enjoyed the sun outside his fondness for twilight.  When he somehow got some rays, often at his mother’s insistence for his vitamin D requirements, he skipped past sunburn and went right to a deep tan.  As far as George was concerned, that was where the blessings ended.  

His most defining physical characteristic was a shock of silvery hair that started just off the center of his pronounced widow’s peak and ran back to the top of his head, overtly contrasting his dark, shaggy mop.  It was his most visible scar from the accident, having grown out in the months after, and it made him an easy target for malicious name-calling.  There was nothing he hadn’t done to hide this mild deformity, if only to give his tormentors one less thing to latch on to.  Dye wouldn’t take, no matter the color, and cutting it only revealed a dry patch of scaly, unsightly skin.  Covering it with a hat or hood might work for strangers but did nothing for people who already knew, as they’d just point out that he was trying to hide it.  

But George had resigned himself to this long ago.  Despite Jessica’s insistence that he was handsome like his father, George had learned not to trust his mother’s unconditional acceptance.  His peers treated him like a troll, better off under a bridge than out in public.  Challenging that perception had led nowhere.

He dressed for school in a simple jeans and hoodie combo. As he puttered around his room, he noticed the box his father gave him sitting on his computer desk.  It was such an odd thing to send him.  But his father always had strange interests.  He loved ancient history and, according to his mother, was a sort of adventurer in his youth.  As the last of the Everhart clan, Henry had used his inheritance to travel the globe in search of mysteries to solve and odd relics to discover.  But they were all gone, sold into other rich people's collections or donated to museums.  Aside from photo albums, a few articles of clothing, and the house itself, this box was all that was left of his legacy.

However, while his father was eccentric, he never did anything without good reason, especially regarding George.  Henry was always keen to teach him things that George was sure other kids didn't need to know.  He learned to read Latin, pick locks, tie knots, tend wounds, and, most of all, how to defend himself.  While Henry was a patient and forgiving teacher, George wasn't always the best student.  He preferred playing video games or drawing alone in his room, and finding a balance between his father's demands and George's own inclinations could be challenging.

George opened the box and carefully removed the orb to examine it more closely.  It was lighter than expected, warm to the touch, and almost impossibly smooth.  There were no seams or hinges, no hidden buttons, and it sounded solid when he tapped it with his knuckle.  George grabbed a magnet from his drawer and waved it around the sphere.  It was a long shot, but it wouldn't be the first time his father used magnetism to hide something from him.  However, the orb was utterly devoid of any magnetic field George could detect.  It was, as it seemed, a dull hunk of rock.  

George used his new tablet to take a picture of the sphere, which he would use for further research later. Then he placed it back in its box and closed the lid.

The walk to school was dreary and gray since the sky still hadn't cleared.  It was late September, and the maples were beginning to turn red, orange, and yellow.  But it was hard for George to tell on a rainy day like this one.  He raised the hood on his jacket to avoid the drizzle and hiked the two miles to Stafford Regional High School.  He'd done it so often that he could walk it with his eyes closed. 

But George could never get too comfortable.  Suddenly, a bus coming up the road behind him stepped on the gas and swerved toward the massive lake-like puddle George was passing.  The tires hit the water, making a loud scuffing noise and creating a wave over eight feet high right at George.  He dodged behind a telephone pole just in time and avoided the tsunami.  As the bus sped by, George heard the children aboard the bus laughing and cheering and just rolled his eyes.  "Not today, bus driver.  Not today."

Stafford was on the smallish side but reasonably diverse, being a bedroom for the larger cities nearby, and the students of Stafford Regional reflected that diversity. There were people of all shapes, sizes, races, and creeds united by the school's reputation for athletic dominance. In just a decade and a half, a single high school athletics program transformed the once very lived-in colonial East Coast village into a boom town, and a wave of immigration now propped up Stafford's economy. Families had moved there from across the state and beyond just so their children could be a part of a legacy, and they'd brought with them their cultures, political views, and, some would say most importantly their money. There was friction here and there, but as long as the Stafford Dragons brought people together, common purpose had won the day. Some had called it a modern miracle, a shining example of what a pluralistic society could accomplish.  

George had lived in Stafford his entire life. To him, it was just the place where his family had lived for generations. All he wanted was to get through the day without attracting too much attention from the masses of students flooding the corridors. While everyone else had a friend or two and a little slice of the school just for them, George felt like a zombie lumbering through the halls, moving with the pack without being a part of it.

At his locker, George caught a familiar sight.  Someone had slapped a brightly colored sticky note on the door that read, "SNOWFLAKE!!"

"Two exclamation points," he mused.  "Guess it really is my birthday."

He peeled the note off the door to add it to his collection.  There was always one waiting for him, and he'd taken to collecting them like trading cards.  He had a sizable menagerie inside his locker, with the dupes stuck on top of each other.  However, he quickly realized his folly.  Today's note had superglue on the back, ready to adhere to the first person who touched it.

He could hear giggling from a group of girls a few paces away, but rather than acknowledge them, he did his best to act like their little trap didn't bother him.  He'd seen other students punished for lesser infractions, but George had learned long ago that it was useless for him to speak up.  Since the accident, no one save his mother had taken his side for any reason, and it was better they didn't see him cry.

Then, as the warning bells rang, people scrambled to their respective classrooms to start the day.  With no time to fix the problem, George quickly put his jacket away and hurried to homeroom; the note still stuck to his fingers.  Then, George felt the telltale signs of another episode when he sat at his desk.  He clutched his stomach as his innards began twisting themselves inside out and put his head down to avoid eye contact with anyone nearby.  

It wasn't until he heard the click-clack of heels that he chanced looking up.  "Good morning, everyone," said Ms. McCoole pleasantly as she set her latte on her desk.  

Catherine McCoole was the youngest and newest teacher at Stafford Regional.  She was brilliant and efficient, and she spoke with a smooth, sultry, yet commanding voice that politely asked for your attention.  However, her body demanded attention before she had to say anything.  Ms. McCoole was a knockout.  She had dark brown hair held up in a tight bun, big brown eyes, and delicate features.  She was about the average woman's height but packed extreme curves that would make any social media starlet jealous.  Though she did her best to downplay her charms in how she dressed, she could have been wearing a hazmat suit and still turned heads.  

George could tell she was in a good mood from how she twirled around the front of the room, updating the information on the whiteboard.  But then she made eye contact with him, and her mood shifted.  Her cheeks reddened, and though she quickly averted her gaze, she couldn't hide her discomfort.

George had two daily class periods to bask in her beauty.  Unfortunately, In the first week of school, George let his imagination get away from him and made a salacious sketch of her during her English Literature class.  Naturally, he'd been found out. In an embarrassing reveal, Ms. McCoole was forced to confiscate his sketch pad filled with over a dozen drawings of her, each more erotically charged than the last.  Aside from a mild admonishment, she barely said anything about the incident or even written him up for it. But that didn't stop the story from spreading through Stafford Regional like a virus.  His lapse in judgment had left their already perfunctory relationship strained and awkward. George's shame was as painful as any of his episodes, and while he yearned to apologize properly, he had yet to work up the courage.

The bell rang, and homeroom officially began.  George sat alone in the corner and did his best not to draw attention.  It was then that one of his worst nightmares was realized during the morning announcements over the school loudspeaker.

"Thank you, Serenity, for that riveting sports report.  Go Dragons!" came Farah's lovely voice through the speakers.  "Next, don't forget that the anti-bullying club, No Bull, is accepting new members and donations.  With your help, we can make our school a safe space for all.  Finally, it looks like we only have two birthdays today.  Piper Rosewood and…George Everhart."  

Predictably, the entire class looked at him like a cackle of hyenas, ready to pick off a sickly gazelle.  Farah might as well have painted a bullseye on his back and announced the start of hunting season.  

Farah continued, "Happy Birthday…to both of you, I guess." His classmates giggled, whispered conspiratorially, or grinned malevolently.  "Well, that does it for your morning update.  Remember, you can have a good day or a bad one; the choice is yours.  Bye bye!"

Meanwhile, he struggled to breathe as the pain in his abdomen spread to his chest.  He cursed himself for letting his birthday slip his mind.  Historically, the day brought out the worst in people around him, seemingly encouraging the indifferent to join in the fun at his expense.  Yet, he forgot, perhaps on purpose.  Wishing he could crawl back to his attic, he flipped his hood over his head, folded his arms over the desk and hid, hoping they'd leave him alone.

After homeroom, George darted to a bathroom to remove the superglue from his fingers.  As he ran his hand under the warm, soapy water, a troop of football players walked in, all wearing their purple and black varsity letter jackets and wolfish grins.

"Sup, Snowflake!" said Connor, one of the team captains and his worst tormenter.

George sighed, "Hello, Connor."  George could only guess what would happen next but knew he wouldn't like it.  Meanwhile, his pain was only getting worse.

However, Connor couldn't be happier.  "I can't believe it's that time of the year already.  Happy birthday, buddy!"

The insincerity was so thick it was practically suffocating.  "Yeah, thanks," replied George as he mentally prepared himself.

"Oh, hey man, you okay?  You look like you're gonna vom," he said, doing his best to sound concerned.  A couple of his friends giggled amongst each other behind him.  "What's the matter?  Another tummy ache?" he asked condescendingly.

Most of the glue had come off, and George was ready to get out of there.  As he dried his hands, he said, "Connor, can we just get this over with?"

Connor feigned indignation.  "Aww, my dude, my guy.  Look, I know we haven't always got along.  But for real, we're just here to wish you a happy birthday.  Right gang?"

One of the linemen, Tommy, counted down, "Three…two…one," the group began singing the happy birthday song in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible.  George stood there awkwardly while they took their time, enunciating every shrill syllable.  

When they finished, Connor clapped George on the shoulder and said, "Enjoy your day, bro!" Then, he and his crew strolled out of the bathroom, leaving George alone.  

As soon as they were gone, George let out a sigh of relief even as his pain kept ramping.  Then he winced as something sharp pierced his guts.  He looked down, expecting Connor to have shivved him before he left.  But it was all in his head.  He gave himself a few minutes to calm down but couldn't.  The pain was becoming unbearable.  He waited until the warning bell sounded before grabbing his bag and heading to his first class.

However, as he exited the bathroom, a row of his classmates in a semi-circle awaited him.  They yelled out, "Surprise!" Then, they let loose a volley of water balloons directly at him.  George raised his hands to defend himself, but it was no use.  Each balloon hit its mark and exploded in a deluge of white shaving foam.  

The hall erupted in laughter.  It seemed as though the entire school was there to witness the event.  A multitude of camera flashes went off, and when George wiped his eyes, he could see dozens of phones recording him.  Connor and his entourage were in the back, high-fiving each other.  Outwardly, George made no expression.  He barely moved.  In moments like this, George remembered a piece of his father's advice.  "Never let them see you cry." He just stood there, enduring their nasty jeers, and waited for it to end.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle silenced the crowd and sent them scattering like cockroaches.  A man's deep, gravelly voice roared over the commotion, "Have you monkeys lost your damn minds?  Get to class now!"

The voice belonged to the school's revered football coach, Mr. Veiss.  He was an enormous man, built like a linebacker, with a well-groomed salt-and-pepper mustache and short hair.  He never went anywhere without his trusty whistle.

He scanned George up and down and asked, "What the hell happened to you?"

George sighed.  "It's my birthday," he said.

Mr. Veiss took a moment before he fully understood.  "Ohhhh," he dragged out.  "So, you're the one my boys are so entertained by." He stepped closer and brushed some of the foam off George's shoulder.  "Well, that's gonna stain," he muttered.  "Get in there and clean yourself up.  I'll escort you to class."

"Thanks," was all George could say.

The remainder of the morning could only be described as a series of unfortunate events.  Everywhere he turned, it seemed like there was someone ready to pounce.  George did his best to sneak through the halls between classes and avoid the constant tripping and shoving, but it was as if the entire school was after him.  He couldn't even escape the bullying during class in the presence of a teacher.  During sociology, Mrs. Tanner had George stand up and read a passage from their textbook.  She scolded him the entire time, telling him to speak up and stand straight.  Meanwhile, she ignored his classmates as they threw balled-up pieces of paper, erasers, and rubber bands at him.  

George was used to being bullied, but not usually this openly.  And all the while, his insides felt like a wet towel rolled up and wrung out.  He wanted to escape, but he couldn't leave.  He was already on probation for his poor attendance, mainly because his bullies made it challenging to get to class on time.  Vice Principal Rodriguez had already threatened to expel him if he skipped entirely.  He'd brought his grievances to authorities several times but was always dismissed and accused of faking, embellishing, or outright lying about his circumstances.  He'd even been banned from the nurse's office.

He was in desperate need of a distraction.  So, while he had some free time during chemistry class, he pulled out his new tablet and sought safer stimulation online.  But the bullying had already spread into cyberspace.  The videos of him getting assaulted with water balloons filled with shaving foam had spread through the school's network and beyond.  There were already hundreds of hurtful comments from people he'd never met.  He was practically going viral, and the day wasn't half over.

Unable to find respite online, George found the picture he'd taken of the stone orb his father had given him.  His mother had dismissed it as an unremarkable rock, but something told him there was more to it.  He plunged down the rabbit hole, looking for information about stone spheres in history, literature, and art.  But beyond brushing up on his geometry and a bunch of spiritual lingo like wholeness and unity, he was far from unlocking the secrets of the enigmatic object.

Sometime later, at lunch, George debated even trying to eat.  There was no possibility he could get through the lunch counter without food in his hair or down his shirt.  But he hadn't eaten since the day before, and though nothing seemed appetizing, he had to eat something.  George knew their school's cafeteria was alright, but lately, food started tasting more and more like ash.  Nobody else seemed to notice, so he assumed it was just him.  He grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water and made his way to the register. 

In front of him was a mousy, redheaded girl that he recognized from his senior art class.  Her name was Piper.  She transferred to Stafford Regional a year before.  He hadn't interacted with her much, which suited him fine since interactions with others were always dicey.  But Piper might have been one of a handful of people at Stafford Regional who hadn't openly expressed disdain for him.  By that metric, they were practically best friends.  

Her hair always stood out - near waist-length, with streaks of gold, tucked into an elaborate braid.  She wore thick, black-framed glasses over her deep blue eyes, a baggy yellow sweater, and unflattering jeans.  Despite knowing next to nothing about her, he always enjoyed seeing her.  For whatever reason, the colors of her hair and clothing just popped better, as if he was seeing her through some kind of image filter with the saturation turned up.  

She was frantically swiping through her banking app on a chunky, outdated, and well-used tablet device, looking for funds to add to her wallet.  With the line backing up and her desperation mounting, George held his phone to the scanner to pay for her lunch without a word.

"Oh," she said, surprised.  Piper looked at him curiously and struggled to find the right words.

The cashier quickly rang him up, and George left swiftly afterward.  Some other more adventurous person might have used an opportunity like this to segue into a quippy meet-cute like in a romantic comedy, but he was happy to make himself scarce before Piper realized who he was.

He avoided the cafeteria and found a secluded bench in the adjacent commons, an open nexus of intersecting hallways leading to various wings. It was full of carefully curated vegetation and decorated in the school's signature purple and black.  Even though he was hungry, he couldn't get through a few chips before washing his mouth with water to eliminate the chalky consistency.  Even then, the water tasted metallic, almost rusty.  His pain was still ramping, and he wondered if his silent phantom friend would ever come to comfort him.  But the commons were mostly empty.  

He was getting more desperate for relief by the hour, so to conjure her, he turned to his tablet and began scribbling a hasty sketch of the enigmatic girl.  And for a moment, he forgot how hungry and tired and tortured he was.  He focused on his art, on her, his imaginary friend.  He felt stupid when he thought about her that way.  But if his choice was between feeling silly or broken, he'd be content with silly.

However, that reprieve was short-lived.  He'd just finished the girl's eyes when a young woman hopped onto the bench and collided with him.  "Sup, nerd!" she shouted.  

Already on edge, George jumped and yelped, "Gah!"

The young woman giggled mischievously.  Her name was Lacy Summers, and she epitomized the blonde bombshell look, with big fake boobs and lips, thick thighs, and the owner of what was widely considered the best ass in three counties.  She was dressed for gym class, with black and gray yoga pants and a red hoodie with the midriff exposed and the neckline cut as far down as the school's dress code would let her get away with.

"Can I help you?" he asked sarcastically after regaining his composure.

"Ugh, you need to lighten up, George.  You are turbo lame, I swear."

"So you've said," he replied.  He was never in the mood to deal with Lacy.  "What do you want?"

Undaunted, she continued.  "Well, I couldn't help but notice that you're using a Van Gogh DX Workstation Pro.  That's a pretty impressive piece of tech." Then she nudged him and said, "And I see you're using one of the most advanced portable devices on the market to draw a girl.  Typical."

George was caught off guard, both by her knowledge of niche mobile devices and how deep her cleavage was when she leaned forward.  He quickly locked the screen and shoved the device in his bag.

"Aww!  Did I interrupt happy time?  I'm so sowwy," she pouted.

George looked away and said nothing.  He knew better than to indulge her.

"Anyway, I'm actually here on business.  You know Farah, right?"

George's ears perked upon hearing the name of his first crush.  

Lacy giggled, "What am I saying?  Of course you do.  Well, her birthday is coming up soon." She leaned closer and pressed her breasts into his arm.  When she caught him looking, she chewed her lip suggestively and said, "Happy birthday, by the way."

George scooted further away from her, but she pretended not to notice.  "I've heard that you're quite the artist.  And since we both know how much of a fan of hers you are, I thought you might like to be a part of my surprise for her."

"No," he said immediately.

She laughed.  "You haven't even heard my plan yet."

"I've had enough of your plans, Lacy."

She rolled her eyes.  "Oh gosh.  Are you still sore about getting stranded on the roof?  That was, like, two years ago, dude, get over it."

"It was less than four months ago, and I had to retake Spanish 201 over the summer because you made me miss the exam." He didn't bother bringing up the heat exhaustion or the blistering sunburn that not even his genetics could protect him from.

She laughed.  "Why didn't you just reschedule the test, stupid."

"I tried," he sighed.  "But Mrs. Esposito hates me."

"What, did you draw nudes of her, too?"

George grabbed his bag and was about to get up when Lacy held his arm.  "Wait, wait, wait.  I'm sorry, okay?  Just hear me out.  Gosh!"

George ignored her and kept trying to get up.

"I can fix your relationship with Farah," she said enticingly.

That gave him pause.  One of his biggest laments was being unable to get closer to Farah.  There were many reasons for this, the biggest one being her boyfriend, star middle linebacker and captain of the football team, Connor Reckman.

"Ahah!  I knew you'd be interested." She continued as if he'd already agreed.  "I've been trying to get that girl out of her shell for years.  She's smart, she's sweet, she's popular, she kicks ass on the soccer field.  And most importantly, for our purposes, she's hot as fuck.  The girl has it all."

"Uh-huh," he said skeptically.

"Sorry, I forgot I was talking to her biggest fan," she said as she nudged him.  "The thing that most people don't know about her is that she's super shy.  I mean, sure, she has nice expensive clothes, and some of them show off a belly here and there, but you can't get her in a bikini to save her life.  So I thought, maybe, perhaps, I could make her feel more comfortable with her body if she saw what she looked like in a sexy photoshoot or something.  But she won't even pose for me, and I'm her best friend!  Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, imagine," he muttered.

"So then I had this brilliant idea.  Maybe she'd reconsider if I could make a piece of art with her posed all sweet and sexy.  Problem is, while I am a highly evolved woman with many skills and talents, drawing isn't one of them."

"So, you want me to, what?  Make a pinup of her?"

"Yes!  You got it!"

George rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, that'll go over well.  Hey Farah, I know we haven't said a word to each other since I wrote you a stupid love letter in seventh grade, but here's a picture I drew with your boobs out."

"Don't be so crude," she scolded.  "And don't you think I already thought of that?  I'll explain why we did it, that I commissioned it from you, and we just wanted to show her what a babe she is.  As long as you make it your best work, I'm sure she'll love it, and then she'll have you to thank for it."

There had to be a catch.  There was always a catch with Lacy.  "Why me?  And how do I know you won't just take this to Mr. Rodriguez and accuse me of stalking her or something?"

"Oh, come on!  How petty do you think I am?" She thought for a moment and then said, "Don't answer that.  Look, you're the only person I know who can draw people well.  And really, who better than her unrequited love?  I mean, think of the redemption arc."  She framed an imaginary banner in the air.  "From the outhouse to the friend zone, the George Everhart story."

"Inspiring," he said dryly.  "Thanks, but no thanks.  Get an AI to do it for you." He turned to leave and took satisfaction in knowing he'd avoided another one of her traps.

"Please," she said quietly.

George stopped.  He thought he might be hearing things, but she said please.  And she sounded sincere.

She continued.  "I have the cash.  I could just go online and get some stranger to do it.  But I want it done by someone who…cares about her.  I know you hate me, and I get it.  But you see her the way I do.  That's what I want for her."

"I don't hate you," George huffed.  He couldn't believe he was actually considering her proposal.  This was the same Lacy that ensured everyone knew every sullied rumor about him, regardless of the truth. But perhaps this was the opportunity he was looking for, the chance to be something other than a pathetic whipping boy.  If he put his heart and soul into it, and Lacy backed him, he might come out ahead for once.  It wasn't as though he had anything to lose.  "It'll be tasteful?" he asked.

"Absolutely!  Just her in something a little revealing, like a swimsuit or some lingerie, in a sexy pose.  Less fap and more tact.  I'll even pay you."

He thought about it, then sat down and said, "Counter-offer."

"I'm listening," she said excitedly.

"Keep your money.  Instead, will you get the football team off my back?  You're the team manager; they would listen to you."

"Oof," she groaned.  "That's a really big ask, George.  Are you sure you don't want something else?  Something easier, like, I don't know, a new car?"

"Those are my terms," he said adamantly.

"Ugh!  Fine!" she whined.  "But it better be your best work."

"Deal," he said.

"Yesssss," she said, pumping her fist.  "Can we start now?  I have, like, a bajillion ideas!"

And so, the two began collaborating on Farah's pinup.  Lacy brought up some pictures on her phone of the two of them at the beach for reference.  At the same time, George started to create a rough preliminary sketch of what would eventually be the final product.  Lacy had plenty of input, from the outfit Farah would wear and her hairstyle to more esoteric details like lighting, shading, and color palette.  Despite his misgivings about Lacy, he was actually having a good time.  His pain still lingered and made his hands shake during vicious spikes, but he was thankful to finally have an adequate distraction.   

And he could hardly ask for a better subject.  Farah was a beauty by anyone's standards.  She had straight black hair, bronze skin from her Middle-Eastern heritage, enchanting gray eyes, and a delightfully athletic build.  Her long, contoured, and well-built legs were perhaps her most well-known feature, but George was spoilt for choice on what to make the focus of the piece.  

By the end of lunch, the two had ironed out all the details George would need to finish on his own.  They settled on a simple full-body shot, with her hand on one hip and holding a soccer ball against the other.  She would wear cleats, knee-high socks, bikini briefs, and a matching sports bra, all in the school's colors, purple and black.  Lacy wanted her to look coy and flirty, and they spent most of their time together getting the expression just right.

"This is gonna be so awesome," marveled Lacy.  "Send me a copy of this, will you?  I'm gonna document the process.  You have my email, right?"

"If it's in the registry, yeah."

"Are you gonna be able to make the deadline?  I need it in two weeks."

Two weeks was plenty generous, but George didn't want her to know that.  "It'll be tight, but I'll do my best."

"Sweet.  I'll see you later, nerd.  And don't show that to anyone!  It's a surprise."

"Who would I even show it to?" he muttered.

She stuck out her tongue in disgust.  "Don't be so lame, Snowflake.  No girl likes that." Then she got up and bounced away.