The call came during my lunch break, right when I’d started convincing myself I was doing okay.
Not good. Not “new normal” okay. Just… functioning.
I was sitting in my truck outside the sandwich shop, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a half-eaten turkey club. The radio was low. A sports host was yelling about a trade that didn’t matter, but I kept it on because silence had teeth these days.
My phone buzzed. The screen said: RIVERSIDE ELEMENTARY.
For a second, I thought it was a field trip form, a missed signature, a reminder about picture day—normal stuff that still felt unreal since Sarah died.
I answered with my mouth full.
“This is Mr. Holloway,” I said.
The voice on the other end was the school nurse, Mrs. Kapor. I’d met her twice. One time when Caleb got a splinter. One time when he fainted during a blood drive presentation because he’s Caleb—sweet, squeamish, the kind of kid who apologizes to spiders.
Her voice now was tight with something between panic and awe.
“Mr. Holloway,” she said, “you need to come immediately. Five children have been transported to County Medical, and your son is… involved.”
I swallowed hard.
“Five kids?” My throat went dry. “What do you mean involved?”
A pause. Not a normal pause. The kind of pause where someone is deciding how much truth to hand you at once.
“I can’t explain properly over the phone,” she said. “But your son is safe. He’s here with me. Please come right now.”
I dropped my sandwich like it had turned into a live grenade.
I don’t remember crossing the parking lot. I don’t remember buckling my seatbelt. I only remember my hands shaking so badly I missed the ignition twice before the engine caught.
Five kids.
Caleb is ten years old. He’s skinny for his age, all elbows and knees. He still sleeps with a nightlight. He cries during animal rescue videos and tries to pretend he’s “just allergic.”
Whatever my mind started conjuring—knives, fire, some nightmare headline—I couldn’t make it fit the kid who used to whisper “sorry” to his stuffed dinosaur if he knocked it off the bed.
I tore through traffic like the devil was chasing me.
And maybe he was.
Riverside Elementary looked like a crime scene.
Three ambulances were still parked with their rear doors open. Paramedics loaded equipment while parents clustered in frantic knots, yelling questions at staff members who looked like they’d aged ten years in ten minutes.
A police cruiser idled near the curb.
I slammed my truck into the first open space and jumped out before it was fully in park.
That’s when I saw Principal Vega near the entrance, standing with two uniformed officers. His face was pale and drawn. Not angry. Not accusatory.
Stunned.
When he saw me, something flickered across his expression that I couldn’t identify.
Not blame.
Something closer to… bewilderment.
He didn’t say hello. He just nodded once and directed one of the officers to escort me inside.
The hallway was chaos contained by fluorescent lighting and the fragile illusion of school rules. Teachers herded confused students back toward classrooms. Kids whispered, wide-eyed, like they’d just learned monsters were real.
The officer led me past the front office, past the trophy case, past Sarah’s old bulletin board from when she volunteered for the fall festival—still there, still decorated, like the world hadn’t gotten the memo she was gone.
The nurse’s office smelled like antiseptic and fear.
And there was Caleb.
He sat on the examination table with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders even though the room was warm. His glasses were cracked, one lens completely shattered. His right hand was wrapped in gauze, little spots of blood soaking through like ink.
When he looked up at me, my stomach dropped.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t guilt.
It was something older.
A grim satisfaction that belonged on the face of someone who’d made a choice they knew would cost them everything… but made it anyway.
I crossed the room in two steps and knelt in front of him.
“Buddy,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Are you okay?”
He nodded slowly.
“My hand hurts,” he said. “But… I’m okay.”
I wanted to scoop him up, blanket and all, and run until the world couldn’t reach us anymore. But his eyes held me still.
Mrs. Kapor touched my elbow gently and pulled me aside.
In a low voice, she said, “Caleb injured five students. One critically. It happened on the playground.”
My vision tunneled.
“Injured?” I whispered. “What does that mean?”
“I… don’t have all the details,” she said, and the words sounded rehearsed—like someone had told her what to say and what not to. “But I will say this: it appears Caleb was defending himself. Possibly others.”
She glanced at Caleb with an expression I’d never seen on a school nurse’s face before—something between respect and concern.
That made my skin crawl.
Respect for what?
My ten-year-old son?
Then the door opened.
Principal Vega entered with one of the officers and a woman in plain clothes who carried herself like she’d walked into a thousand rooms full of lies and always left with the truth.
She introduced herself as Detective Amara Foster.
Her face was kind in the way of someone who’d spent years working with children, but her eyes were sharp, cataloging everything: the gauze, the cracked glasses, Caleb’s posture.
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