There’s a man in the school’s boiler room.

I told Danny. I told Rick. I told Mrs. Arthur. I told my parents what I saw. But-

I saw him there. I asked teacher if I could wash the watercolor brushes after class. I saw him instead.

He was squeezing a pigeon in between his long, fat hands, crouching in the dirt and the cobwebs behind the rusty furnace. The pigeon’s eyes. They were wide. It had its beak open. Wide. It had its beak open like it was trying to make a sound.

The man was grunting while he was bringing his hands together.

I heard pops. Little pops.

The man heard me drop the paintbrushes into the janitor sink. He looked. He saw me. I couldn’t move

With red feathers still stuck to his hand he raised a long finger to his lips.

“ssh…”

He put the head of the bird in his mouth and crawled away on all fours behind a jungle gym of pipes.

I yelled but the janitor said he didn’t see him.

Mrs. Arthur was upset that I wouldn’t go back to the sink for the paint brushes.

Now I have to sit inside alone during recess. All week.

I have to sit in the room with the door locked. I have to sit in the room with the lights off.

And I’m listening to something scrape at the concrete behind the walls.