Three Days Before the Wolves

  November 5–7, 2016

  Age 17

  “The wolves do not knock. They arrive with blood in their teeth and names in their mouths.”

  —Bloodvex, Entry 11

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  Day One: The Watcher Blinks

  They called me to the office.

  Asked about Amy.

  Asked about where I was, what I knew, what I saw.

  I lied. Of course I did.

  But something shifted.

  When I walked back into class, Ms. Kathy looked at me too long. Not like a teacher. Like a witness. Like someone who’d seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

  I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

  That’s when I knew.

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  She’s not just a teacher. She’s a threat.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about her eyes. How they lingered. How they blinked too slow. Like she was memorizing me.

  I wrote in my notebook:

  “The Watcher sees. The Watcher must forget.”

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  Day Two: The Knife Dreams

  I stayed after class. Told her I didn’t understand the lesson.

  She believed me. She always does.

  She walked me through the worksheet. Her voice was calm, patient, warm.

  I imagined what it would sound like if she screamed.

  I watched how she moved. How she packed her bag. Where she kept her keys. What she touched. What she didn’t.

  She offered to walk me through the assignment again. I nodded. Took notes. Not on the lesson—on her.

  She said, “You’re quiet today.”

  I said, “I’m just thinking.”

  She said, “About what?”

  I said, “About endings.”

  That night, I sharpened a pencil until it snapped. Then I sharpened another.

  I wrote in my notebook:

  “The blade is patient. The bell is near. The lesson is almost ready.”

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  Day Three: The Bell Tolls

  She said something about Amy. Something small. Something harmless.

  “I hope she’s okay.”

  I said, “She’s fine.”

  She said, “You’d tell me if you knew anything, right?”

  I said, “Of course.”

  She smiled. That fake, teacher smile. The kind that says, I’m watching you.

  That’s when I decided.

  Tomorrow. After school.

  One last lesson.

  I packed my bag with care. Notebook. Pencil. Protractor.

  I cleaned my nails. Brushed my hair. Wore my best shirt.

  I wrote in my notebook:

  “The Educator’s Exit Exam: One student. One question. One answer.”

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