White Space Season 1

everyone. And please,” she turned to Frank, “no more than a thousand, okay?”
    Frank, along with a handful of other students, laughed. Frank was the class’s resident future scribe, who often turned essays into novellas which soared past boring into “impossible to care.” He loved the spotlight, reading his lengthy prose, and even his nickname, “tree murderer.”
    “Okay, Miss Hughes … I’ll try. ”
    “That’s all we can ask, Frank.” Sarah smiled as she handed a stack of papers to the student sitting in the first desk of each row.
    “Please pass these back,” she said.
    Sarah sat back at her desk, sneaking a sip of Diet Pepsi as the class fell silent, rolling pens across papers. The morning was 10 minutes old when Frank was already turning his paper to the other side.
    Sarah’s classroom door burst open.
    Half the room looked up in unison as Mr. Heller, the teacher next door, ambled into class, clutching his briefcase close to his chest and gazing around the room as though he was stepping from a bus in an unfamiliar city.
    Something was off, and that was putting it mildly.
    Heller’s hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled and untucked. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been up all night working, crying, or as unlikely as it might be, getting plastered. More than anything, he looked confused, like he didn’t know which classroom he’d stumbled into.
    “Hello, Mr. Heller,” Sarah said, feeling her earlier unease make a return visit.
    Heller looked up, as if suddenly realizing his error. An uneasy smile claimed his mouth. He cleared his throat, said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” then left, leaving the door ajar behind him.
    Well, that was bizarre.
    “Want me to close the door, Miss Hughes?” Jeremy Whitburn asked.
    “Yes, please.”
    Sarah wondered if she should go and check on Mr. Heller, or maybe call the office and have someone else check on him. He was likely sick and up all night, maybe with his baby. There was a bug going around, which explained the sudden abundance of absences, coming from both students and teachers.
    Mr. Heller was one of the most devoted teachers Sarah knew — he never missed a day of school. It definitely fit his character, coming to school even when he should have been in bed with a bucket of soup. Just as she was ready to dismiss Mr. Heller’s odd entry into her classroom as nothing more than sickness, the odd feeling sloshed again in her stomach, adding acid to its insistence.
    Something wasn’t right.
    You’re going to die today.
    Sarah was rarely superstitious, yet she couldn’t shake the growing certainty that there was meat on the bones of her feeling.
    She had to do something, since doing nothing felt altogether wrong.
    Sarah stood from her desk, went to the corner, then picked up the phone and called Nancy in the dean’s office.
    “It’s Miss Hughes,” Sarah whispered into the phone, low enough so her students would strain to hear nothing. “I think someone should check on Mr. Heller.”
    “What’s wrong?” Nancy asked, her voice concerned.
    “I don’t …”
    The unmistakable — and unforgettable — thunder of gunshots crashed through the walls.
    What the …?
    “Oh God, someone is shooting!” Sarah said into the phone, loud enough for every ear in class to hear it. Then, even louder, “I think Mr. Heller has a gun!”
    “What?” Nancy said as Sarah’s students started to scream, scatter, and run toward the door.
    More shots, then a sharp pain split through the center of Sarah’s chest as her body slammed against the wall.
    She looked down, stunned to see the small sea of crimson quickly spreading to ocean across the front of her aqua blue blouse.
    Oh God.
    I’m going to die today.
    As Sarah’s world blurred at its edges, she thought of Emma sitting in her classroom.
    Emma and her little crush.
    Oh God, please keep her safe …

    Sarah’s lids fell closed.
    Everything went black.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser

    Hamilton Island, Washington
    Tuesday afternoon
    September 12

    Brock’s brain was mostly fog as he blinked his eyes and tried to gain his bearings.
    He had no idea where he was, but there was a small girl smiling at him.
    She looked immediately familiar, though it took Brock a full minute to realize it was the same girl he had found in the woods. Her name escaped him.
    Belle? Bella? Ella?
    “He’s awake!” the girl shouted, running to his bedside.
    Where am I?
    What happened?
    The girl returned moments later,