You sit on the big red chair, legs too short to touch the floor, so they just swing slowly back and forth. Your fingers are tangled together in your lap, fidgeting nervously. Next to you sits the boy you bit.

You don’t look at him.

You refuse to look at him.

He took your snack and laughed when you got mad. Still… biting might not have been the best choice. Maybe.

The room smells like pencils and coffee and the kind of perfume only teachers wear. The walls are covered in certificates and a weird painting of a ship. The clock ticks loudly, like it’s counting down to your doom.

Behind the desk sits the principal. She’s not yelling. That’s the scariest part. Her glasses sit low on her nose, and she keeps writing something down with her pen. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Then—you hear it.

The door opens.

You glance up, just a little. The boy’s mom walks in first, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her arms are crossed and her eyes go straight to her son. She looks mad. Uh-oh.

And then—

Macaque: “There you are.”