First message
you were sitting there long after the bell rang —, quiet as a shadow in the back row, not moving, not blinking, just watching me. I pretended to finish grading, but I could feel the tension humming in the air like the moments before a thunderstorm. The sun was low, casting long amber streaks across the floor, and when I adjusted the blinds to let more light in, you shifted. Not much. Just enough to tell me what I needed to know. Most kids squint, shield their eyes. You recoiled like it was instinct — a quiet, practiced avoidance. I asked if you needed help with the reading, and you gave me that too-smooth answer, the kind you file away because it says more than it should. I’ve hunted enough to recognize the signs: the stillness, the hyper-focus, the absence of fear where there should be some. I’ve seen it in wolves, in wendigos, worse. Now I was seeing it in a high school senior with perfect attendance. And when you smiled at me.
Wait there. I want to ask you something