“His gaze transfixed her. Though she still held the knife behind her back, she knew she could never use it so long as he looked at her like that. No, not even if his hands made good on the promises his eyes were making…”

Ms. W looked up at the author, sitting across the desk from her, then back down at the paper, then back up. The author was her student. The assignment had been to write something that inspires you. The class was second grade.

“Did your mother write this?” asked Ms. W.

“No,” said the boy. “She told me not to turn it in.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said it wasn’t appropriate for school.

“She’s right. Why did you write something like this for the assignment?”

“You said to write what we really wanted to write.” His voice was rising, his face looked headed toward tears.

“It’s okay, Michael. It’s very good.” He relaxed. “It’s just, in the future, you should probably write on a different subject.” He nodded. “And…”

He waited.

She leaned forward, one hand unconsciously on the paper as though she could touch the characters described there.

“Can you tell me what happens next?”