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drive past and see him breaking into the school, he sucked in a breath of fresh air as if it were his last and stepped into the building. The hydraulic door closer wheezed loudly as it pulled the door shut behind him. The heavy latch clanged with the sharp finality of a jail cell slamming shut. The sound echoed loudly through the deserted corridor.
    I can’t believe I’m actually doing this! Pete thought as a thrill raced through him.
    He moved hesitantly toward the stairway as though hypnotized. Once upon a time, the wooden risers had been painted flat black with black rubber protective edges, but now the tan ovals of bare wood were showing through from wear. Cupped depressions marred each step close to the railing where the heaviest foot traffic had passed over many decades.
    As he started up the stairs, Pete automatically reached out for the handrail to steady himself. He was mildly surprised by its smooth, comforting feel that seemed so familiar . . . as if he had touched it every day of his life as recently as yesterday.
    He took each step cautiously, one at a time, not at all surprised when the treads creaked loudly underfoot. The slow, groaning sound made him wonder if the stairs were even safe after all these years, but he reminded himself that the school had been used up until only a few years ago. There was nothing to worry about, unless it was getting caught trespassing on public property.
    The schoolhouse had trapped the stale summer heat like an oven. Even before he got to the top-floor landing, he was sweating ferociously. In the rectangle of light that fell across the floor, he saw every detail in intensely sharp relief. Every dirt-filled crack between ancient boards, every swirl of wood-grain pattern worn to a dull black gloss with age stood out with near-hallucinatory clarity.
    At the top of the stairs, Pete paused to wipe his face on his bare forearm.
    The stale air was making his throat feel raw, as if he were running a fever. He looked longingly down the hall to the old porcelain water fountain, which was attached to the wall. He knew there was no chance the water would still be turned on, but just seeing the fountain—the “bubbler,” as he and his friends used to call it—made him think of all the times he had asked to be excused from class to get a drink. Beneath the layers of dust and dirt, the dull white gleam of old porcelain showed through the grime like ancient, rotting bone.
    One detail which he didn’t remember from when he was a student here was the pale brown pine wainscoting that lined both sides of the corridor. The varnish had yellowed with age and was peeling up and laced with cracks like old river ice. Between the parallel joining grooves as well as in the angles where the wall met the floor, there was a thick accumulation of dust and black gunk.
    Pete walked over to the door and entered Gussie Doyle’s old classroom. He was surprised to see the desks and chairs still there, all lined up in neat, narrow rows as though waiting for another onrush of noisy students. The desks looked much smaller than Pete remembered them. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the tall windows and glanced like white fire off the dusty aluminum sills. The heat in the room was stifling. Scores of trapped flies and hornets bounced against the grimy glass and tangled themselves in the clots of cobwebs as they sought a way to escape. The sill was littered with the dried husks of those who had failed.
    The room looked and felt incredibly ancient, but everything still appeared to be in order. Pete let out a grunt of surprise when he saw what looked like a small, slouch-shouldered person in the coat closet at the back of the room. It took him a heart-stopping moment to realize that it was an old coat someone had left behind. On the teacher’s desk was a faded ink blotter, a cobweb-draped cup filled with pens and pencils, and a row of dusty textbooks. Pete had the distinct impression that the closing of the