The carpet smells of decay and mud as I flatten my face against the floor on an attempt

to hide under a queen's eyes bed.

And incessant banging at the door resonates through my brain, feeling like I'm being impaled

with an iron spike.

Each knock slams at deeper than my throbbing temples.

Mr. Hutchinson, are you home?

A voice inquires yelling through the mail slot.

I recognize it as my son's second-grade teacher.

Mrs. Mason, dread grips my heart and cold gray hands as I remember not closing the shade

to the kid's bedroom window.

I wonder if she can see the red painting the walls, turning brown over time with oxidation.

Undoubtedly, I decide.

Joseph hasn't been to school for three days now.

Mrs. Mason continues.

We've been trying to call you as everything all right.

Mrs. Hallis says Courtney hasn't been in either.

She wants to use a very serious issue in our district.

I know I don't have to tell you that, Mr. Hutchinson.

Please contact us immediately.

Although irritating, the tone of her voice makes me thankful that she was Joseph's teacher.

She spoke with a perfect combination of care and assertiveness, a difficult thing to do.

I wonder if she spoke to her husband and colleagues the way that she spoke to me just now.

...