Ms. Maribel always says I have helping hands.
She says it when I pick up the crayons without being asked. When I zip Jonah’s jacket.
When I hold another kid’s hand long enough for her to put a Band-Aid on their knee.
“Helping hands,” she tells me—our shared superpower.
Today, she asks for mine while both of hers hold a black box.
It starts during Free Choice, the best part of the day. I’m building a tower with big foam
blocks. Jonah is knocking it over with a toy fire truck. Lila is playing chef, making soup with
invisible carrots and slurping it.
Ms. Maribel is bending down by the donation box in her fuzzy rainbow sweater. I like the
colors. They make me feel calm.
Parents use the donation box when they clean their closets. My mom and dad do it all the
time.
Ms. Maribel pulls out a stuffed bear missing an ear. Then a small, flat basketball that
looks like mine. The last thing is black and square, the size of my lunchbox, with no handle or
picture on the front.
She holds it with both hands, turning it over slowly.
There’s a tiny window on it with red numbers. Like the microwave clock at home.
It’s counting down like one too.

​

08:34
08:33

​

There’s a soft sound. Not a beep. More like a thumping sound you feel in your chest
when you’re scared. She flattens the box on both palms. The knocking slows. The clock goes
back to losing one second at a time.
There are red letters under the numbers.
“Hold level,” Ms. Maribel reads.
Ms. Maribel breathes like she just ran up the stairs.
“Okay, everyone,” she says, too cheery. “Let’s play a game. But before we start—helping
hands,” she says, looking right at me. “Remember the red button under my desk? Can you press it for me?”
I nod. Ms. Maribel said it’s for big help only.
“Hey! I want to press a button!” Jonah whines.
“You already press everything,” Lila says.
I crawl beneath the desk and find the button beside Ms. Maribel’s pencil box. When I
push it, a red light comes on above the classroom door. The lock gives a thick clunk.
During drills, the red light means nobody goes in or out until someone comes with the
silver key.

I hurry back to the rug.
“Siri,” Ms. Maribel says.
Her phone answers from the desk. “Yes?”
“Send a message to Director Brackett. Bon voyage. Room Four.”
“Your message to Director Brackett says, ‘Bon voyage. Room Four.’ Ready to send?”
“Send.”
“What’s band boy-aj?” Jonah whispers.

I lift my shoulders.
Ms. Maribel raises the box a little higher. The knocking stays slow.
Her phone chimes.
“Message from Director Brackett,” Ms. Siri says. “‘Emergency services notified. Other
rooms are moving outside. Police have the silver key. Stay where you are.’”
“Siri, reply. Three children are with me.”
The phone says the message was sent.
Ms. Maribel looks at her desk and takes one step. A knock comes from the box. She stops
and doesn’t breathe. She sits down slowly on the rug, holding the black box tight. When she puts
it down, it knocks really loudly.
Her eyes get big looking at the numbers. Then she picks it up, just a little. The sound gets
quiet. Ms. Maribel doesn’t blink. Her hands are flat under it. Lila crawls closer first. She told me
she wants to fix the sad thing before others even know it’s sad.
“What is it?” she whispers.
Ms. Maribel smiles—the smallest smile I’ve ever seen. “It’s a surprise box.”
“Open it!” Jonah cheers.
“No!” Ms. Maribel says too fast. Then nicer. “Not this one.”
The box knocks against her palms.
I think the number's broken. It skipped ahead.

​

04:26

​

She looks at us. The door. The windows. The box.

I think I get what’s happening.. The box wants to be held. If she lets it go, it will get mad.
Lila and Jonah look at me. I hold their hands. I want to get help, but the door is locked.
Ms. Siri says people are coming with the silver key. I hope they come faster.
“Let’s play Statues,” Ms. Maribel says.
Usually we hate Statues because grown-ups play it when their ears are tired. This time,
we sit on our rug stars.
“Remember,” she says. “If you move, you lose.” She makes a laughing sound. It sounds
wrong.
Nobody laughs.
Lila sits criss-cross applesauce right in front of her. Jonah climbs into her lap like he
always does when he’s scared. Ms. Maribel makes a sound like she’s about to say no, then
doesn’t.
“Careful,” she whispers, moving her knee.
The knocking goes loud again.

​

01:21

​

Ms. Maribel stops so fast Jonah bounces.
“Ow.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You’re okay.” Her eyes are wet now. Not crying. Just watery.
She keeps us busy with the colors on her sweater. I find green near her elbow. Jonah finds
yellow by her pocket. Lila says purple twice, and Ms. Maribel counts it twice. When we run out
of colors, she starts again.

The red numbers keep shrinking.

​

01:00

​

Something pounds against the door.
Lila grabs my arm.
“Ms. Maribel?” a man calls from the hallway.
“I’m here.”
“What’s your status?”
“Three children. The device is in my hands. Forty-nine seconds.. Movement accelerates
the timer.”
“Keep it level. Maintain contact.”
My heart is so loud in my ears. I want to run. But... Statues. We have to stay still.
Ms. Maribel looks at us, and she’s scared now.
“You’re doing so good,” she says, smiling really big.
Something scratches inside the doorknob. The red light goes out, and the door opens slowly.
A lady in a blue vest gets down on her knees in the hall. She holds up both hands.
They’re empty. A man squeezes in behind her wearing a big dark suit. His arms and legs look
huge, and his face is behind a clear window. He carries a shiny silver thing with two flat pieces folded up.
Ms. Maribel keeps her eyes on us.
“Statues,” she reminds us.

The man lowers himself beside her and opens the shiny thing.
“Eyes on me, everyone,” she says.
We listen.
“Big breath in.”
We breathe in.
“Big breath out.”
We breathe out.
She moves the box very slowly to the man.

​

00:30
00:29
00:28

​

“Left hand,” the man says.
Ms. Maribel pulls her left hand out one finger at a time. The clock drops six seconds the
flat piece holds the box.
“Right hand.”
She pulls the other one out.
The box pounds against the silver thing. The man puts a thick cord into the side of the
box and presses a little button with his thumb.

​

00:02

​

The red numbers disappear. The knocking stops.
Nobody moves.
“Clear,” the man says. He carries the box into the hallway.
The lady in the blue vest holds out her hand. “Come on, everyone. We’re going outside.”
Jonah whispers, “Is the game over?”
Ms. Maribel laughs and wipes her face with her sleeve. “Yes. You all won.”
I look at her hands. Red lines run across her palms where the box sat.
She reaches for me. “Helping hands,” she whispers.
I take one of hers in both of mine. Her fingers keep shaking between my hands as the lady leads us outside.
I get it now.
Superheroes on TV wear uniforms. Ms. Maribel wears her fuzzy rainbow sweater.