It was Ms. Abernathy, the school librarian, who first tried to warn me. She caught me in the hallway one afternoon as I was mopping up some spilled soda near the cafeteria.
“Mr. Collins,” she said quietly, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Mikey.”
Something in her tone made me stop. “What about him?”
She glanced around to make sure we were alone. “He’s been spending every lunch period in the library. At first, I thought he just liked to read, but…” She hesitated. “I think he’s hiding.”
“Hiding from what?”
“There’s a group of boys—seniors mostly. I’ve seen how they look at him when he passes by. How they whisper. Yesterday, I found Mikey’s backpack in the trash can outside the library.”
I promised her I’d talk to Mikey, and I did try that night. But he shut down completely.
“It’s fine, Dad. I just like the library. It’s quiet.”
A week later, I found his sketchbook in the trash. The pages were soaked with water, the drawings blurred beyond recognition. When I asked about it, he said he’d spilled his drink on it by accident. But there was something in his eyes—a deadness I’d never seen before.
The next day, I requested a meeting with the principal, Mr. Davidson.
