Free Shadow Man by Cynthia D. Grant

another chance. Your daughter is alive.”
    â€œShe was going to go to college!”
    â€œShe can still go to college!”
    â€œNot with a baby! She’s too young to be a mother! She’s going to have to put it up for adoption.”
    â€œYou’ll have plenty of time to discuss that,” I said. “Your daughter will be home for dinner tonight. She’ll sleep in her own bed. Gabriel’s dead! He’s never coming home! Do you understand what I’m saying? Imagine how his parents must feel. Not that they ever gave a damn when it could’ve done some good. They crippled that kid! That beautiful child!”
    â€œMrs. Sanders!” The principal, Dick Peterson, was standing in front of me. Everyone was watching us. He said, “That’s quite enough. I need to talk to you. Please come into my office.”
    I told Sharon I would call her back. Then I told Dick, “We have nothing to discuss.”
    He flushed, appalled to have an audience. “You seem to be losing your grip,” he said.
    â€œI’m losing my grip because I’m so upset? Gabe’s dead! How am I supposed to react?” I turned to Decker. “As for you, you little twerp, you’re just another backyard fascist. You didn’t like Gabe because he wouldn’t salute. Now you’re saying we can’t have the flag at half-mast because it might give the kids the idea that he mattered. Let me tell you something, Decker—”
    â€œMrs. Sanders,” Dick pleaded.
    â€œâ€”Gabe mattered. He mattered a lot! You’re jealous of Gabe, the good-for-nothing bum. That’s what you used to call him, remember? I’ll tell you something, Decker: You’ll have to raffle off door prizes to get people to come to your funeral!”
    I left the office. It was break time. Kids were swarming in the halls. A few of them were waiting outside my room. They wanted to talk to me.
    We went inside. I wanted to lock the door, to keep them with me, to keep them safe. The world is such a dangerous place. It gets crazier every day. We expect these kids to cope with so much. We fill the kiddy pool with sharks, then toss the children in. Have fun, we say, but don’t get killed. Then we wonder why they numb themselves with drugs.
    The kids crowded close to me, their faces stained with tears. They wanted to do something special for Gabe’s funeral; to fill the place with flowers and his favorite music, all the stuff that he would really like.
    This is the room where I begged him not to quit school. He was so close to graduating. He leaned against the blackboard with a smile on his face.
    â€œGabe, why are you doing this?” I said.
    â€œNo reason.” He shrugged. “I’m just bored.”
    â€œYou think you’ll have more fun at the mill?”
    â€œAt least I’ll get paid.”
    â€œThat’s peanuts. That’s nothing.” I wanted to shake him. “You can’t make any real money without an education.”
    â€œThere’s more to life than making money,” he said. “That’s what you always tell us.”
    He’d do that: twist whatever you were saying so it bent around and bit you. I was angry.
    I said, “Why are you pretending to be so stupid?”
    He stopped smiling. “Why are you pretending to be so smart?”
    One girl stayed behind when the other kids left. “Mrs. Sanders, can I ask you something?” she said.
    â€œCertainly, Amy.”
    â€œDoes it hurt to die?” She ran her fingers through her hair until her bangs stood up straight. “I mean, when Gabe died, do you think he felt it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “It happened so fast. Maybe for just a second.”
    â€œDoes it hurt most people?”
    â€œAre you worried about that, Amy?”
    She nodded, too distraught to speak.
    â€œI imagine it’s different for everyone,” I said. “I doubt