Tomorrow, classes begin again. The day dawns on me, solemn, quiet, bannered with the photos of Harry Walker’s youthful face. He smiles in each picture, as prim and proper as his mommy raised him up to be. Only I remember the devil that occurred outside my dorm, the pinning against the walls, and the promise of no escape.
His lovely face terrorizes the campus in photos strewn about. Flowers decorate tables before him. The campus’ publication runs articles on him. Already, the funds in this school have dropped. I got an email from Dean Taiga this morning, too, that excuses me from my first class. Apparently, it’s critical I make it there, now.
I follow the path to her office. Outside, the receptionist looks at me once and tells me, ‘Dean Taiga is ready for you.’
I enter her office.
The
