The glaring red backpack was hanging exactly where it should be, beneath the crocodile in the top hat. A stab in his chest. Rage. Fear. If that voice really had done what it claimed, there was a deadly weapon lying inside. And if it was triggered in the vicinity of twenty-four children, it would take their lives.

He coaxed up the Velcro straps that kept the opening of the backpack together and folded up the flap. Five books. Some math homework. A pen case, striped in Manchester United’s red and yellow colors, with happy footballs on its sides. Then the side pocket. And, just as the voice had told him, there it was. Metal, oval, compact. The hand grenade. Masquerading as a toy, with plastic arms and legs and eyes and a big plastic nose above a bushy plastic mustache. Just like last time. And yet not.

Last time was an indeterminate warning, but this was a death threat.

Because this time the fucking voice had left in that explosive heart.

Piet Hoffmann was holding a live hand grenade.

“Dad?”

He spun around. Hugo. With his hands on his hips and eyes that were anything but happy.

“I thought so! I thought that was you out in the schoolyard! What are you doing here? Inside the school? Class isn’t over?”

“Hugo, I . . .”

“First you pick us up and now you’re coming inside! Here!”

Hoffmann closed his left hand around the grenade, slowly moving it behind his back. If he just stood there normally, then Hugo wouldn’t see it.

“And what are you doing here? Don’t you have class?”

“I saw you through the window. And I said I had to go to the bathroom. Answer me, Dad. I asked first!”

The scene was so absurd that for once he couldn’t watch himself from the outside; this was a mental image he had no wish to save. A father. Across from his eldest son. In a school hallway outside his youngest son’s classroom. And in that father’s hand—a live grenade.

“One of your little brother’s schoolbooks. He forgot it at home. You know how Rasmus is, right? Loses everything. So I was bringing it to him. You two got it pretty good, right? Your mom works here, and when she’s gone, your dad stops by if you lose something.”

Hugo dropped his hands from his hips. And his eyes took on another variation of unhappy. He had accused his dad, scolded his father, for no reason. Piet Hoffmann felt ashamed letting his son stand there feeling embarrassed because of his white lie.

“I’ll be outside in the car. My usual spot.”

“Dad? Come on!”

“Just a few more days. I promise. See you soon.”