Chapter 4

Mrs. Hart's art room always smelled like wet clay, cheap tempera paint, and damp construction paper.

It was seven-thirty on a Friday morning. The school dim beneath the gray morning light, the radiators clanking against the brick walls like loose engine parts.

Mrs. Hart took one look at my face, glanced down at Lucy's knuckles whitening around the ear of her plush rabbit, and pulled us inside before I could say a word. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind us, blocking out the rhythmic hum of the janitor's floor buffer down the corridor.

She didn't ask to see my…