“Yes, this is her!,” the boy who had run into the pavilion muttered, his voice ragged as he gasped for air. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The encirclement felt completely ominous, casting a suffocating shadow over the afternoon. Her eyes darted from one face to another, desperately seeking a hint of malice. But their expressions weren’t exactly malicious—they were frantic, and dripping with sweat.
The lead boy stepped forward, narrowing the distance between them. Clara’s pulse hammered furiously against her ribs. She felt a cold wave of dread wash over her as the boy slowly, deliberately reached his right hand into his heavy jacket pocket.
Her mind raced through a gallery of nightmares. Clara braced herself, closing her eyes tightly, utterly terrified of what was about to happen as the boy’s hand emerged from the fabric.