Taylor Everhart was, in general, a quiet kid. When he rode the school bus into the city every day, he chose not to sit in back with the boisterous students but in front near the driver, where he could be left alone. He did sit in the back of the classroom, however, long hair falling over his eyes as he scratched doodles into the wooden desk. For hours, his blunt penknife worked away at simplistic trees and crude houses, and his mind hoped not to be called on while he absorbed algebra and grammar and World War II. At the end of the day, he rode the bus home again, sitting in the same spot as in the morning and staring out the window, oblivious to the afternoon gossip buzzing around him. He walked the half mile from the bus stop to his house and took in the mail for his mother, entering the house with as little noise as possible so as not to disturb her from her work.
Today, however, was unusual—his mother could tell as soon as the door opened. It would have smashed against the wall had it not slammed against the rubber doorstop, and when it closed she could have sworn even the china in the upstairs rooms rattled. Putting down her accounting paperwork, she hurried to the entryway, where she found Taylor tearing at the laces on his sneakers, almost ripping them out in his hurry to get the shoes off his feet.
