“My dad…” he whimpered. “I want my dad.”

I didn’t say anything. I just listened.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Heavy, rhythmic boots thundering down the hallway. Not the chaotic running of scared kids. This was precise. Organized.

We heard screaming from down the hall. Then, a gunshot.

Pop.

The whole room flinched. Sarah Jenkins threw up on the floor. The smell of vomit mixed with the smell of fear.