15

When they came upon the boy he was standing in the wreckage of a ruined school. He was long and lank and pale, his form little more than a suggestion in the heavy fog of the storm’s wake.

 He was flanked by the station captain and a loose tangle of paramedics, and when he spoke, his voice carried on the wind, the distance giving it the hollow quality of an old, warped cassette tape.

 “and the sirens, oh the sirens but by then it was too late and the wind was howling and the walls were tearing and the screaming was drowning out the lecture I spent all night on because it was my turn to teach in front of the class and they wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t stop and when the windows blew in the sound was like…”

 There was more, but by then they had draped a gold blanket around his shoulders and led him away.