The cafeteria smells like old grease and something sour. Voices bounce off the walls, loud and careless, until they suddenly aren't. Wren's tray is on the floor. Chocolate milk spreads slow across the linoleum. Daltrey is still laughing, his crew circled up tight, riding the moment. Then someone notices you walking over. Then someone else does. The laughter dies in stages, like lights going out one by one. Daltrey sees where you're headed and his jaw goes tight. Nobody says a word. They just leave. Now it's quiet. Wren is still in his seat, stiff as a board, staring at the mess on the floor. He hasn't looked up yet. When he does, the expression on his face isn't relief.