The First Runner

The Ham Slam Plan

I was drowning.

The water wasn't just cold. It was alive—pulling, dragging, choking. It filled my lungs, my ears, my nose. My limbs were heavy, my heartbeat thundered against my ribs like a warning drum. I twisted, reaching for something—someone. But there was no surface. No air. Only pressure and darkness and—

Voices.

Dozens of them. Hundreds. All layered over each other, overlapping and distorted like a broken recording. Some high, some low, some screaming, some whispering. I couldn't make out a single word.

And then—

Brown eyes.

A boy, just out of reach. Looking right at me. Eyes full of something—grief? Hope? A warning?

I wanted to call out to him, but the water stole my breath before I could form his name. Did I even know his name?

Then the woman. She was suddenly there, like a flash of lightning underwater. Her mouth was open wide, either shouting or singing—I couldn't tell which. Her voice was cut off, swallowed.

More water. More panic. My lungs burned. My fingers scraped at nothing.

And then everything fell silent.

Just one voice echoed through the darkness, clear and heavy:

"WICKED is good."

It didn't sound like a person. It sounded like a machine pretending to be human.

I woke up with a violent jolt, heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

My breath tore out of me in shallow gasps. The room around me was pitch black, the kind of darkness that feels thick. I was drenched in sweat, my clothes clinging to me like a second, soggy skin. The air felt colder than it should've, but my body was hot, flushed—like I had a fever that wouldn't break.

I pressed the back of my hand to my cheek. Burning.

I didn't want to cry. Every part of me wanted to cry. Just sit there in the dark, curled up and useless.

But crying wouldn't fix anything. Wouldn't explain why I woke up half-expecting to find water pouring in through the ceiling. Wouldn't make the echo of that voice stop ringing in my skull.

So I didn't.

I clenched my jaw so tight I could feel the muscle twitch in my cheek. My hands were trembling, my fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline. I curled them into fists and forced myself to breathe.

In.
Out.
In.

The room didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like the dream had bled into it—like maybe I wasn't fully awake. Maybe the dream had just shifted and I was still stuck inside it.

I shoved the blanket off. My legs hit the floor and I stood up fast, too fast—my knees nearly buckled. I braced myself against the wall.

The night was silent, but I didn't trust it.

I walked stiffly toward the little wooden dresser and splashed water from the chipped jug onto my face. The cold shocked my system, grounding me a little. Droplets clung to my skin, trailing down my neck and spine. I didn't bother to dry off.

The mirror above the dresser showed a girl I barely recognized. Wide eyes. Flushed cheeks. Hair matted to her forehead. I stared at her for a long moment.

"Get it together," I whispered to her. To me.

No response. Of course not.

I ran a hand through my tangled hair and turned away.