That was what unsettled me.
Classes had just ended.
Parents lined the curb.
Teachers stood near the entrance.
Children spilled across the sidewalk with backpacks bouncing behind them.
I had just told a fourth grader that his new soccer cleats looked fast when I noticed Brenna standing beside my elbow.
She was seven.
Small.
Thin.
Her faded pink backpack looked almost as large as her torso.
Her sneakers were badly worn.
One lace was tied with a knot instead of a bow.
Her dark hair had been divided into uneven pigtails.
It looked as if she had done them herself without a mirror.
But her eyes were what I remember most.
Serious.
Watchful.
Too old.
“Officer Lionel?”
