Pat Tagliavia’s mind swirled with thoughts as he walked out of his house each day before school. He ticked off a mental list of responsibilities: classes, homework, after school activities. Like most other high school kids, he had a lot on his plate. But stepping outside the safety of his front door came at a price: inevitable, chilling fear.
Third grade wasn’t over for me until last Thursday.
Sure, I had moved on to fourth, learning long division and other vital life skills, and had even made it to college. But my heart wasn’t in it. Someone was playing games with it, and I didn’t really want them to quit.
It’s a low rumbling, an eerie rattle that rapidly intensifies, as if danger looms. Continuous for seconds, minutes at a time, it carries an alarmingly powerful resonance, a jolt for anyone below.
Cans of tuna, jars of peanut butter and boxes of cereal pass from hand to hand. A black hijab flutters in the doorway, the woman wearing it reaching into a cardboard box for more.
Sweat dots Jorge Rosas’ forehead, thickening in a pool above his deeply lined, furrowed brow. It’s a hot day, much hotter than in his native Guadalajara, but staying hydrated isn’t what’s worrying him now.
