Free The Tragedy Paper by Elizabeth LaBan

mother was pulling as hard as she could. As soon as Irounded the corner and saw what was happening, I lowered my eyes and kept moving forward. I did not stare—certainly she didn’t need that on top of everything else. People were huddled just outside the plane, watching. It seemed to me like they were waiting to see if the child would agree to board before they did—like maybe the child knew something no one else did. There was plenty of room to move around them, so I kept going. And then I broke my no-staring rule. As I walked through first class, I did stare—at every single passenger sitting in each of the big, fancy seats. That was when I knew without a doubt that Vanessa was not there with me. Every seat was taken, and Vanessa wasn’t sitting in any of them. She was long gone.
    Just as I sat down, my phone beeped. I didn’t get many text messages, so I fumbled a bit and then saw her word on my screen clear as day.
    “Good” was all she wrote.
    I put my head back against the seat, feeling suddenly like I had been drugged. The next thing I knew, the captain was announcing our descent into New York’s LaGuardia Airport. The weather was finally clear, though a bit windy, and we were going to land right on time.
    “Right on time, sure,” the man next to me said. “The right time maybe, just not the right day.”

CHAPTER TEN
DUNCAN
“THE SORROWS OF YOUNG TIM”
    There was a light knock at the door, and Duncan was startled awake, the earphones digging into the side of his face. He pulled them off and dragged himself out of bed, rumpled but still dressed from the night before, and answered the door. Before he could even see who it was, he smelled cinnamon.
    “Hey there, Duncan,” Mr. Simon said. “I’m making the rounds, first morning of classes and everything, but I wanted to start with you and bring you this sticky bun. I was trying a new recipe and wanted to share. Hey, I’m glad to see you’re dressed. It’s never easy to get back into the routine. I’ll see you in my classroom in about thirty minutes. Oh, and do you like coffee? I just bought a few pounds from Guatemala that I grind and brew myself. Here.”
    He thrust a full mug of steaming coffee at Duncan,smiled, and then turned and walked down the hall. He stopped and came back.
    “You know,” he said, “the last guy who lived in this room was named Macbeth.”
    Duncan sucked in his breath. Did Mr. Simon somehow know what he was going through? That Tim had left the recordings for him? Had Mr. Simon snuck in and listened to them? No, Duncan couldn’t imagine that he had. He just stood there, not knowing what to say.
    “You guys don’t get along so well historically,” he said. “Rumor has it that he wants to kill you.”
    When Duncan still didn’t say anything, Mr. Simon sighed softly.
    “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “That was just a little Shakespearean humor. But given the circumstances, perhaps that was in bad taste. Please forgive me.”
    Mr. Simon bowed and offered a weak smile. Duncan watched him walk to the end of the hall and then down the stairs. Why did
he
get the bun and the coffee? And then he remembered. It was just like Tim said it would be: Mr. Simon would bring him food because he felt sorry for him that he had this lame room.
    He closed his door and sat down at his desk. He sipped the coffee and ate the bun. Both were delicious. He didn’t usually drink coffee in the morning—it seemed so adult—but he really liked it. Soon enough he’d be like his father, having to have coffee at various intervals during the day orhe’d get a headache. Starting a vacation by saying he would not, under any circumstances, drink Starbucks coffee that week. He would drink only locally brewed coffee. And then, after a few cups of watery coffee, they would be driving miles out of their way following the signs to Starbucks, Duncan and his sister groaning in the backseat. He liked the idea of that too. It reminded him of