Chapter 4: Whispers in the Hallway
The heavy oak doors of Lincoln Elementary School always smelled faintly of floor wax and wet wool on rainy mornings. As Arthur walked down the second-floor hallway toward his fourth-grade classroom, he could feel the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. Word traveled fast in a small town like theirs. By second period, he noticed the way a few classmates whispered behind cupped hands, glancing sideways at his bandaged hand resting awkwardly on the linoleum desk.
During recess, Arthur stayed inside, sitting at the back of the library with a book on aviation history propped open in front of him. The soft patter of rain against the tall leaded windows provided a comforting shield from the playground chaos.
"Hey, Arthur."
He looked up to see Maya, one of the art editors for the school paper, standing by the bookshelf with a stack of colored pencils in her arms. She looked at his hand with genuine curiosity rather than malicious gossip.
"What happened to your fingers? Did you get caught in a locker door?" she asked, pulling out the chair opposite him.
"No," Arthur said quietly, closing the book a fraction of an inch. "I dropped a cast-iron skillet at Sunday dinner. My dad had to catch it."
Maya raised an eyebrow, not pressing further. She knew enough about strict households to read between the lines. "My uncle dropped a heavy toolbox on his foot last summer and turned every toe purple. My dad says old tools are the most dangerous things in a house."
May you like
Arthur offered a faint, grateful smile. "Yeah. My dad says we're getting rid of the old tools."
The bell rang, signaling the end of recess and pulling Arthur back into the predictable routine of the school day. Yet, as he walked home that afternoon under a slate-gray sky, the reality of the adult world began to close in again. Parked across the street from their driveway was a sleek black sedan that did not belong to any of their neighbors. An unfamiliar man in a charcoal suit stood leaning against the fender, holding a manila folder and watching the front porch with calculated patience.
