It was at the first-grade door on the east side, ground level, that David Colton took his place in line, head down, staring at the shoes of other children in front of him and cataloging what he saw. Some wore shiny shoes and crisp, new jeans. They looked like children from back-to-school ads in the Sunday paper. Others wore sneakers held together with duct tape and prayer. David could see this disparity, even at six. His mother had told him never to judge people by their clothing, that what was inside was the important thing.

He glanced to his left toward the parking lot only once and saw his mother and father. They were standing outside the car. His dad had his arm around his mom and she waved and brushed something from her face. David had attended kindergarten at the church-run school near their house. They’d walked with him each day, but for some reason they had decided to have him attend the local public school for first grade and David didn’t object. He trusted them.

They had made a big deal about driving him for his first day but told him he could ride the bus the next day if he wanted. Part of him wanted them to drive him every day. Part of him wanted to take the bus. He looked away, trying to find something to catch his attention. The last thing he wanted to do was cry, and the feeling inside was like a weight pressing on his chest.

His eyes landed on a kid running toward the line with a Star Wars: Attack of the Clones lunch box, his backpack bouncing. The kid stuffed something in his mouth as he came to a stop, and his cheeks puffed. He was husky with thick red hair that hadn’t been tamed by a comb. A girl who looked a little older trailed him, and when she passed, he said something unintelligible to her because of his full mouth. She rolled her eyes and walked past the line of first graders toward the back door of the main building.

David’s teacher came out of the room and walked down the line. Mrs. Hayes was a short, full-figured woman with dark hair and a shiny forehead. He had met her a few days earlier when his mother brought him for orientation. She smiled at him as she walked the line.

“Good morning, David.”

“Good morning,” he said.

The bell was mounted just below the eave above them and the sound was so deafening when it rang, David had to cover his ears. He filed into the room behind the others, looking for the desk Mrs. Hayes had assigned to him. He found his chair and was putting his backpack on it when the redheaded kid barreled up and put his lunch box down.

“This is my desk,” David said.

“Who said? I don’t see your name.”