I put down the knife and wiped my hands. A strange uneasiness moved through me before I even reached the living room.
She stood beside the couch with her coat zipped to her chin. Her hood covered her head, and her backpack was still strapped tightly over both shoulders. She looked as though she wanted to become smaller than the room around her.
“Sweetheart?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor.
I stepped closer. “Did something happen at school?”
She gave the faintest shake of her head.
“Maya, please look at me.”
When she did, her eyes were swollen and red.
My heart began to pound.
I reached toward her hood. She flinched so sharply that I froze.
“What happened?” I whispered.
She said nothing.
Slowly, I pulled the hood back.
For several seconds, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
Her hair—the hair I had braided that very morning—was gone.
What remained ended in ragged, uneven pieces above her shoulders. One side hung lower than the other. Short sections stuck out behind her ears. The ends looked as if they had been chewed through rather than carefully cut.
My legs weakened, and I dropped to my knees in front of her.
“Oh, Maya.”
The sound that escaped her was half sob, half gasp.
I lifted my hand toward her head but stopped before touching it. The shock in her face made me afraid that even a gentle movement would frighten her.
“Who did this to you?”
She stared at the carpet.
“Tell me who did this.”
My voice rose despite my effort to stay calm.
Felix heard me from upstairs. He hurried down so fast that he nearly missed the final step.
“What’s wrong?”
Then he saw her.
The color drained from his face. His eyes moved from Maya’s ruined haircut to me and back again.
“Who cut her hair?”
Maya remained silent.
Felix snatched his keys from the table. “I’m going to the school.”
“It’s already closed,” I said.
“Then I’m calling Susan.”
He pulled out his phone.
“Wait,” I said. “We need to know what happened first.”
I placed my hands gently on Maya’s shoulders. “Was it the same children who used to pull your braid?”
She shook her head.
“Did someone threaten you?”
No answer.
“Did anyone trap you somewhere?”
Felix muttered something under his breath and began dialing.
“I’m calling the police.”
Maya’s head snapped up. “No!”
It was the first word she had spoken since coming home.
Felix lowered the phone, but his expression remained hard with fear. “Then you have to tell us, sweetheart.”
His anger was not directed at her, yet I could see that it frightened her. I should have softened my voice. I should have held her and asked her to begin wherever she could.
Instead, every old incident crowded into my mind—the pulled braid, the whispered insults, the mornings she had begged not to go to school. I imagined her surrounded in a bathroom while someone cut away the thing she loved most.
“Maya,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “we need names.”
Her eyes filled again.
Then she reached slowly into the front pocket of her backpack and removed a folded, crumpled sheet of paper.
PART THREE — FOUR WORDS
My hands were trembling when I accepted the note.
I expected to find a teacher’s explanation, a forced apology, or perhaps the name of the child responsible.
Before I could unfold it, Maya whispered four words.
“He shouldn’t feel alone.”
Felix stopped moving.
“Who shouldn’t?” he asked.
I opened the page.
