tracing the fresh scratches on the brass switches.
Nineteen years of quiet civilian life, of lawnmowers and parent-teacher conferences, had just ended.
I stared at the empty padlock loop and realized my quiet life had just shattered.
The blue knit blanket was still draped over the vinyl chair when I returned to room four twelve at nine the next morning. Lily was asleep, her breathing shallow, the wired metal in her jaw casting small shadows under the harsh overhead light.
Her canvas backpack sat on the bedside table, smelling of damp earth and rain from the campus plaza pavement. I unzipped the main compartment, careful not to let the metal slider clink against her plastic water pitcher.
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Inside, nestled beneath her biology textbook and a pack of blue pens, was her green university sweatshirt, torn at the left shoulder. I pulled it
