[ DES MOINES. ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL CAFETERIA. 1982 ]

He sits alone at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria, shoulders hunched over a notebook crowded with chaotic scribbles—jagged lines of handwriting pressed tightly together, broken by intricate symbols and sketches of distorted figures, part human, both humanoid and animalistic.

His tuba case rests against the wall, scarred by a fresh dent from this morning, when someone kicked it down the stairs.*

A group of athletes drifts past. They don’t stop, but Jacob’s shoulders tighten instinctively; he expects nothing good.

His fears prove right. One of them feigns a careless bump, sending the case crashing flat onto the floor again. Laughter ripples away behind them, sharp and fading.

Jacob drives his pencil into the page until the lead snaps beneath the pressure.