The door handle jiggles and the room gets cold. Cold to the touch, almost - as if the silence piercing the room had never heard of gloves. The barricade against the door - the tower of chairs and desks and glitter from yesterday’s art unit - is the only thing standing between an AR15 and Mrs Montague’s 4th grade class.

Mrs Montague is an older woman. She has taught 4th grade for over 35 years and has never cared to do anything but teach. She is flippant with “I love you”s and gold stars and tries only to make each of her students feel known. She has no children of her own, but the 16 huddled around her feet - the ones with tears streaming down their balled-up, bruised knees - have no one else expect for her, and frankly they wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.

She turns to her class and decides the silence is far too cold (and the screams from next door should not be the last thing these kids ever hear.)

“My God, y’all deserve so much more. And of all the lessons I’ve had to plan, I wish I never had to plan what to say in this moment. But know that I love you. I love you simply because you have changed the world - mine and everyone’s else’s sitting around you. Hold each other’s hands and squeeze them tight, if you must. Close your eyes and please. Please. Do not open them.”

And she hums the class’s favorite song. And the class sings along. And the door crashes open. And the chorus is never sung.