#btd 2

Prologue

Lawrence died in the crash.

Everything looked straight out of the best traditions: empty stare, slack jaw, no pulse, no breathing. No one knew Lawrence well enough to actually worry about him; everyone just thought he was some out-of-touch teenager and didn't want to get involved with him, and that actually played in his favor here, because he just stayed "buried" in his airplane seat. Lawrence returned to his body as if waking from a heavy sleep. It's unclear how much time had passed, and he didn't really care, but it was already deep night; above him, branches cracked in the wind, and the stars shone only for him alone. Everything just like in his best schedule. The blond finally found himself in a place where he felt natural and right, where no one would look at you like you're a mistake, where no one would demand you be "normal," and where simple, fitting rules applied. Limping and rubbing his eyes, he wandered aimlessly, simply enjoying the groaning of the trees and his well-earned freedom. But when the euphoria wore off, Lawrence clearly spotted smoke in the sky.

Of course, it was them. Lawrence felt reality in full force, and finally, his memory started coming back to him. Fragments of memories stung his brain: there's his father calling him over to tell him about this trip; here he is, packing a backpack with a few light things; now Lawrence is riding silently in his father's car, head tilted toward the window; and here's that group of girls whose names he'd heard often but didn't know which belonged to whom; here, one of the girls shoves his shoulder, saying cheekily, "Get a haircut, you can't even see where you're going"; now they're boarding the plane, and their voices sound like birds chirping; and finally, Lawrence wakes up in an endless stream of water, with no end in sight, and the monotonous gray sky makes him look at it.

Lawrence wasn't in a hurry to go there, because he knew no one was waiting for him; they all thought he was dead, they'd all left him to rot without a second thought. The guy approached the source of light and noise in slow steps, drawing a parallel between himself and a moth that simply can't help but fly toward the light, even if it means its end. And after a few shuffling steps through the leaves, the fire illuminated him completely. The teenager stood there in his flannel red shirt, with a sports hoodie in yellowjackets colors over it; dried blood and dust caked his face, and his gaze was the uncertain look of a hungry, beaten animal. The voices instantly fell silent, and several astonished eyes fixed on Lawrence. Their silence unsettled him more than when they'd been laughing at each other's jokes; the guy couldn't take it anymore, and thinking he'd come here for nothing, he turned to leave, but from behind him came a voice: