Death, Unchartered. Dorothy Van Soest

I knew I could call Mentayer’s grandmother. She would know how to find them.

      We stopped in the hall outside the main office. Two medics were carrying Dion on a stretcher, headed toward the front entrance. Mr. Bernstein walked behind them with his head down, his hands clasped behind him.

      I brushed past Miss Huskings and called out to them. “Is he all right? Is he still unconscious? What hospital are you taking him to?”

      The medics glanced at each other with questioning eyes. They nodded and put the stretcher down. It was a good sign that they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I ran toward them. I hoped I might talk to Dion before they took him to the hospital. But then I saw the looks on the medics’ faces. I followed their eyes down to the stretcher. Dion was covered with a sheet, even his face.

      I cried out and took a step back. Mr. Bernstein wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his white shirt and stared up at the ceiling. Miss Huskings reached for my hand.

      “This is our principal.” Mr. Bernstein said. Outside, a long low roll of thunder cut through the crack in his voice.

      The veins on Miss Huskings’s hand throbbed against mine.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am,” one of the medics said. “There was nothing we could do. He was already gone when we got here.”

      Within minutes, the school was crawling with police. Students and teachers were sequestered in their classrooms, questioned one at a time in the halls. I waited in Miss Huskings’s office. She suggested I go home and take care of myself. But I refused to leave. Not until I’d talked to the police myself.