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would tell off that same friend for trying to set him up with someone so obviously beneath him.
    For his part, at least the sheriff had the courtesy not to tell her to her face what a huge mistake had been made. He was even gracious, trying to pretend he didn't find her to be an odious, used piece of trash that wasn't worth his time. He pretended to be interested in her, asking several basic questions before at last lapsing into a coma-like silence that had lasted the rest of the night. He had actually taken the trouble to pretend she was worth his time, and that both made him infinitely more interesting and attractive and served to highlight the vast gap between their relative social standings and relative worth as human beings.
    She became aware that the sheriff was waiting for her to respond to his last words, but for the life of her could not remember what those words had been.
    He had beautiful eyes.
    She pulled herself away from that thought. It didn't lead anywhere useful or even remotely possible anyway, so she just said, lamely, "I thought I was here by myself."
    "You were," answered the sheriff. Then, looking around the empty classroom, he said, "Isn't today a school day?"
    "They let the lower grades have the day off. The mayor himself gave the order. For the funeral." She paused for a moment, then said, "I guess you've heard what happened."
    Sheriff Meeks nodded. "That's why I'm here, actually. Wanted to look through Sean's things."
    Lenore felt herself grow instantly protective. She had no children of her own, so these children who wandered temporarily into her care, each to stay only for a year before moving on to greener pastures, were as close as she would probably ever come to having offspring. Not children of her loins, but of her mind, of her heart. So the fact that anyone, even someone as clearly caring and good as Sheriff Meeks, was asking about Sean made her instantly alert and careful.
    "Why do you want to see his things?" she asked.
    "Because in spite of the memorial service, I haven't seen enough to believe he's dead," answered the sheriff. "So I'm going to find him."
    Of course, true to what she felt about him, the sheriff had come up with exactly the right answer. Lenore nodded and gestured for him to look at the desk she was standing by. Instead, though, Sheriff Meeks held out his hand. She gave him the papers that she was holding immediately.
    Their hands touched when she did it.
    She almost felt a spark leap across the gap between them; came close to gasping before quelling the urge, before reminding herself who he was and more importantly who and what she was and so realizing that no matter what she felt, there was no way that the sheriff could possibly reciprocate her interest.
    The pictures that he leafed through were all mostly the same: picture after picture of a cute stick figure with his hand leaning against a crude wall.
    "What are all these of?" asked the sheriff.
    "We read the story of the little boy and the dam last week," said Lenore. Sheriff Meeks shrugged, clearly communicating that he had never heard of it. "The one about the little Dutch boy," prompted Lenore, dropping automatically into her Teacher Mode. And seeing that the sheriff still didn't know the story, she continued, "The boy sees a crack in a dam by his village. He wants to get help, but knows that before he can tell anyone, the crack will grow and split the dam open and everyone he knows and loves will die."
    "So what does he do?" asked the sheriff.
    Lenore indicated the pictures that the man was holding. "He puts his finger in the crack. Plugs the hole. Saves the town."
    Sheriff Meeks nodded and kept looking through the pictures, Lenore watching as he did so. They were all the same. "He must have really liked the story," observed the sheriff.
    "He did."
    Then the sheriff stopped suddenly. It was the second-to-last of the drawings that he held in his hand, and it was one that Lenore didn't remember ever seeing. It was the