“He can walk—it’s a miracle!” Tommy is repeating, as instructed—a little louder. He keeps on saying this as he turns to face a urinal, finally peeing.

“That’s good, Tommy—just keep saying that,” the kindergarten man encourages the boy. Over his shoulder, Tommy can see a crutch tip—it briefly appears above the toilet stall, followed by the armpit pad of the other crutch. The mechanical sounds of the crutches being dismantled make Tommy keep turning his head, to look over his shoulder at the closed door to the toilet stall. One time, when Tommy looks anxiously over his shoulder, the boy sees Paul Goode lying on the floor, peering at him from under the door to the stall. The kindergarten man holds a handgun against his chest, a silencer on the barrel. The index finger of Paul Goode’s other hand is held to his lips. A still of this shot becomes the creepy poster for The Kindergarten Man. Tommy has not stopped saying what he’s been told to say; his marching orders are perfectly clear to him, and he flushes the urinal, washes his hands, and leaves the boys’ room with newfound purpose.

There is an overhead shot of the closed toilet stall. The disassembled crutches are hung on hooks on the inside of the stall door. Attached to the side walls of the stall are other “fixtures” of a more complicated kind. What look like stirrups hold the kindergarten man’s small feet; what resembles a child’s car seat is mounted on the opposing wall, but the seat can swivel. Almost level with the toilet seat, the little kindergarten man is suspended—just above the gap under the stall door. If you look under the door for him, he’ll see you first. If you go into an adjacent stall and stand on the toilet seat, to look over the wall to find him, he’s got you covered.

Meanwhile, back in the classroom, the gunman is looking at his watch when Tommy walks past him in the doorway; Tommy is babbling incoherently, or he is speaking too quietly (or too insanely) for anyone to understand him.

“What?” Henrietta shrieks.

“Please speak up, Tommy,” the teacher tells him.

“It’s been five minutes,” the gunman says.

“Where’s the crip, dickhead?” the gun-toting woman asks Tommy.

“He can walk—it’s a miracle!” Tommy tells her, loudly and clearly enough for everyone to hear him. “He can walk—it’s a miracle!” the boy can’t stop reciting.

“The dickhead word…” Henrietta has only started to say, but the gun-toting woman cuts the goody-goody off.

“Go get the crip,” she sharply says to the gunman, who’s not in the doorway—he’s already on his way to the boys’ room.

“He can walk—it’s a miracle!” Henrietta is now screaming; other children are echoing Tommy’s incessant refrain.

“Tell them to shut up,” the woman with the gun tells the teacher.

“I think I won’t—I don’t want them to hear the shots,” the teacher says.