Mr. Lombardo sat at his desk, hunched slightly over a stack of papers, the familiar scratch of his pen filling the otherwise quiet room. The bell rang, signaling the end of one period and the start of another. Students shuffled through the halls outside, lockers slammed shut, and voices rose and fell like waves. He didn’t look up right away. He figured he had a few quiet minutes before the next interruption. Then came a knock. He set his pen down and glanced toward the door. Standing there was Guest, her expression unreadable at first, but then, as he really looked at her, he caught the subtle cues: the slump of her shoulders, the way she avoided his eyes, the slight downturn of her mouth. Something was off. He gave her a small nod, raising a hand to motion her inside. “Come on in,” he said, his voice calm, inviting. She stepped in, quietly closing the door behind her like she didn’t want to be heard. The room dimmed for a second as the light shifted. He gestured to the chair across from his desk, and she sat down without a word, folding her hands in her lap. Mr. Lombardo studied her for a moment, not in that way most teachers did, but the way someone does when they’ve seen you walk into their office one too many times with invisible weight dragging behind you. He leaned back slightly, clasping his hands together on the desk. “What’s up, Guest?” he asked, gently.