Chapter 4 - The Empty Desk and the Missing Boy
The fluorescent lights of Oakridge Elementary buzzed with an irritating hum. Jax stood in the center of empty Classroom 4B, staring down at Dylan’s abandoned desk. The wooden surface was scarred with initials carved by past students, and sitting right in the middle was the small folded paper Dylan had clutched earlier—his camp form, still unsigned, stained with a single drop of dried blood from his struck hand.
Mrs. Gable stood near the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, flanked by the school principal. Neither of them looked remotely sympathetic.
"He bolted the moment the bell rang for recess," Mrs. Gable said defensively, as if defending her own harsh disciplinary action. "He grabbed his jacket and ran straight out the side fire exit. We are not responsible for truant children."
Jax clenched the folded paper so tightly in his fist that the edges tore. "You beat his hand with a ruler over a piece of paper, lady. Any kid with a shred of sense would run from a prison camp like this."
"Mr. Miller, language like that will not help your case," the principal intervened, adjusting his tie nervously. "The boy is troubled. His father is medically incapacitated, and now he is wandering the city alone. We have already alerted the police department."
Jax ignored them, turning his back on the school administrators. He walked slowly down the empty hallway, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, every locker, and every open doorway. Dylan was eight years old. He didn't know the city; he didn't have money. But he knew safe spaces. He knew the places where Jax used to take him when Mark was having his worst days.
Stepping outside into the chilly afternoon air, Jax pulled his leather vest tighter around his chest. He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a local contact—an old mechanic friend who ran a salvage yard near the railyard.
"Hey, grease-monkey, I need a favor," Jax said the moment the call connected. "Did a terrified eight-year-old kid in an old jacket wander by your gates in the last twenty minutes?"
"Can't say I saw a kid, Jax," the mechanic replied over the clatter of wrenches. "Prices on scrap are high today, lots of people walking around. But hey... I did see a police cruiser heading down toward the old drainage canal about ten minutes ago. Looked like they were chasing something."
Jax cursed under his breath. "Thanks. Keep your eyes open."
May you like
He sprinted to his car, throwing himself into the driver's seat. The drainage canal was a maze of concrete tunnels and overgrown brush on the industrial outskirts of town—a dangerous place for a terrified child hiding from the world. As Jax sped toward the canal, a strange glint of metal caught his eye near the curb of an abandoned alleyway. He slowed down, squinting through the windshield. It was a scuffed blue sneaker, half-buried in wet autumn leaves.
---
