I drop to the floor of the school cafeteria when a gunshot rings throughout the room. My face slams against the cool, hard floor so hard that I taste blood. Another gunshot goes off. I hear screams this time—kids crying out for their parents. I am silent. I build up the confidence to look in the direction of the shooter. Two more gunshots. This time, I see the faces of the victims, Zach Millerton and Ronnie Pearson. Suddenly, everything makes sense. I should have known; I should have seen the signs. A sense of eerie calm washes over me. The shooter is my best friend, Max Blythe.

...

10 more minutes. 10 more minutes until lunch duty is over. The school district should hire more personnel for this instead of forcing teachers to be on duty during their free periods. My feet ache as I watch students interact with their peers. A student waves and greets me, "Hi, Mr. Blythe!" I wave back. I hear screams coming from the other side of the cafeteria. I snap my head in that direction, preparing to break up a fight, when I see him. A gunshot hits my coworker and fellow teacher in the head. I instinctively drop to the ground. My body goes cold, and my pulse starts racing. How could I not know? How could he do this? Before I could reason with myself, two more gunshots rang through the cafeteria. My son shot my coworker in the head. My son is the shooter.