By Connor Long-Johnson
The printer continued its mechanical drone as the sheets of paper were laid out one by one. It was Friday and with most of the children gone a much-appreciated blanket of quiet had fallen falling over the school.
That was until a shout came from the classroom at the end of the corridor, a muffled, subdued child’s squeal. Murmured, I could still make out the words.
“Fire! Fire!”
I turned and smashed my elbow into the nearby alarm, cracking the glass seal and activating the system. The shrill screech pounded overhead, sirens blazing, interrupting the churning of the printer.
I couldn’t leave knowing a kid was screaming and might be in danger – choking or worse – so I ran for the classroom, my heart pounding.
There was no one there and no fire either.
Only a charred scrap of paper, with the word HELP, scribbled in a child’s messy scrawl.