Epilogue - Thea
EIGHT YEARS LATER
Hillcrest Primary already has AC units, but they mostly collect dust since I’ve realized that this place rarely gets hot enough to need them. The weather stays pretty mild most of the year, except in winter, with only a handful of days where the temperature actually climbs high enough to make you sweat.
I stand at the front of the classroom, watching twenty heads bend over, and I catch myself doing the thing I always do during quiet work time—scanning. Old habit. The kids are working on their Father’s Day cards, and they’re meant to tell everyone later why their dads are awesome. I do these speaking activities on purpose, helps them get comfortable talking in front of everyone.
My eyes move from desk to the next until my gaze stops at the back row, far left corner.
Rosie Rutherford is chewing on the end of her pencil; her honey-blonde hair I braided this morning, already escaping everywhere. She got my hair and my looks, except the eyes and the stubborn wiring underneath that’s all Kilian. Her card is completely blank because she keeps turning around to whisper to the boy beside her, who is beet-red and pretending he can’t hear her.
“Rosie.” She doesn’t hear me. Or she’s pretending not to hear me, which is more likely. “Rosemary Rutherford.”
Her head whips around. Kilian’s eyes blink at me with the audacity of total innocence. “Yes, teacher?”
“Your paper is blank.”
“I’m brainstorming.”
“Brainstorm with a crayon in your hand, please. And lets leave Marcus alone.”
Marcus’s ears go from red to burgundy. Rosie pouts, picks up a crayon, and turns to her work.
I press my lips together and look away before the laugh gets out. I walk the rows, peeking at drawings. A lot of stick figures with exaggerated muscles. One kid has drawn his dad holding a fish the size of a car.
After fifteen minutes, I return to the front. “Okay, who wants to go first? I need a brave volunteer.”
A hand shoots up before I finish the sentence. Leonie. She is a force of nature—loud, fearless. She’s already on her feet, drawing clutched to her chest.
“Leonie, come on up.”
She marches to the front and turns her drawing around with a flourish.
I blink.
The drawing shows three stick figures. On the left, a small girl and a woman. On the right, a large stick man. His arms are raised. His mouth is a dark, angry slash. And behind him, behind all of them, thick strokes of red crayon as the background. Wild slashing marks that the crayon left grooves in the paper.
“This is my dad,” she announces, pointing to the large figure. “He’s Superman.”
I look at the drawing again. The man’s face is aggressive. His fists are up. The red is violent, chaotic. Nothing about this image says Superman. It says danger. It says someone should report him to the police.
But I keep my face neutral.
“And this”—she sweeps her hand across the left side of the paper—“is the family my dad saved.”
I blink again.
“Their house almost burned down. My dad is a firefighter, and he went in and got them out. Dad said it was his job but Mom said he was a hero and made him a cake.”
The red crayon is fire.
Of course it is.
The man’s arms aren’t raised to strike. They’re raised because he’s carrying someone. Or shielding them. Or fighting flames. And the mouth isn’t angry. It’s open because he’s shouting, calling out, doing his job.
“He got a medal,” she adds, beaming.
“That’s wonderful, Leonie,” I manage, and my voice is steady. “Your dad sounds like a real-life superhero. Thank you for sharing.”
