A head injury. A gash on my leg. A black eye. Today is not my day. Not Noah’s, either. He retreats into his mute aftermath, typical of his meltdowns, but the calm won’t last long. The trigger is still there. He is still stuck in this room. It’s only a matter of time before there’s another outburst. A worse one.
He rolls his hat down over his eyes and taps his head against the stall. Yes, he has to get out of here.
Soon.
“I don’t think Noah can last much longer in here,” I admit.
“Me neither,” Isabelle complains.
I look at the door, considering other options. “I could run with him. Maybe down the back stairs and out the side door.”
“I dunno,” Hogan says.
“Do you think it’s just a prank?” Isabelle asks. “I mean, this guy Maxwell, do you think he’s just trying to scare us? Or is he, like…totally crazy?”
Hogan stands and walks to the far corner just under the tiny window. He jumps up the wall and, after a few tries, manages to grab the ledge of the window well. Slowly he drags himself up to peek outside.
“What do you see?” I ask, as he hangs by one hand to open the latch. The glass is too dirty to see through but as the window tilts forward, he peers through the opening underneath.
Hogan pauses for a second, then drops to the ground. “Nothing, really. Just a few cop cars.” He brushes his hands off on his fur. “But I think we oughta sit tight until Wilson says it’s clear.”
I know he saw something but I don’t press him. Whatever it was is bad enough that he doesn’t want to mention it.
I don’t blame him. I’ve read enough about school shootings to know that if this isn’t a prank, this Maxwell probably has a plan. Maybe even a list. Xander might be on it. Isabelle, for sure.
But I don’t tell them that.