Alerted by the stench, the drawing teacher found the load neatly curled like soft serve. It brings out the best in us, one teacher joked. Another called it art. It is the third of March, and for the third time you evacuate the building in a storm that pushes its acid fingers in your eyes, your ears, your nose. This time you don't return to the building.
Rumors flare like small fires in rain.
Bomb in F Wing, it turns out, by the ceramics room. Kid picks it up, hands it to the teacher tending the kiln, says he found it by the door. You have a student in a wheelchair that shakes in shivering rain. Let's go, you say after an hour, and roll her to your car, lift her onto the seat. She is too light.