Club

Nicholas limped through the gates of the Doane Institute. The ride back had been long and uncomfortable, and his ankle throbbed with every movement. He leaned heavily on the car door as a guard stepped forward to assist him, gripping his arm to steady him. Nicholas muttered a gruff "thank you" and turned his gaze toward the looming steps of the institute.

The stairs. Always the stairs.

He groaned audibly, the sight of them a cruel reminder of how far his dormitory was from the ground floor. For a moment, he debated sleeping in the hallway, but before he could dwell on the thought, Ferguson appeared.

"Ya' need a hand?" Ferguson’s voice was gruff but kind, his large hand already resting on Nicholas's shoulder.

Nicholas shot him a sidelong glance. “Who am I to say no?”

Ferguson chuckled and guided him toward the steps, but instead of ascending, he turned down the corridor leading to the principal’s office.