My mother’s eyes dart back and forth anxiously, as if monsters lurked in the shadows, their claws ready to tear out our hair and press holes in our lungs. My own hairs rise as we walk through tall, overbearing doors with tiny plaster- glass windows. Into a narrow hall, well-portioned sandwiches and plastic cups of lemonade line metal carts next to deafening machines that buzz throughout the floor. I clutch the cap I knitted to my chest and keep my eyes fixated on room 203.

2 week later, she leans over a basket filled with paper mache cranes, 1000 to be exact. I sit by the piano, my fingers lightly touching the old ivory keys, without actually pressing down upon them. The cranes were for luck, apparently, a gift from a friend who had carefully crafted each crane from light purple paper over the course of 5 years, waiting for the right person. I imagine smooth hands creasing each piece of paper with soft fingers. I imagine the creases becoming routine, etched into the mind of the maker, someone who believes in fables and fairytales and luck and cranes. But Mrs. Kramer didn’t need luck. She needed a miracle. She turns back around and allows me to begin, so I urge my wrists to bend up and down as the pads of my fingers press deeply into the keys.

I wasn’t thinking of these things April 11th when the bell rang after 4th period. I got up. Crossing to the door, I reach my phone out of my denim pocket and begin to scroll through my news feeds. Text from mom to pick up milk on the way home. Text from friend to go to chipotle for lunch. My friend Katie is complaining about band as I tap facebook and begin to scroll. I am about to laugh at her story when an angel with a false smile peers up at me. A choking noise comes out instead. My eyes overlook jumbled letters that are supposed to provide meaning. But I don’t understand. I can’t read them. The scene around me blurs as my eyes fixate on the words that read in a foreign and faraway tongue. My mind desperately attempts to catch up with my eyes which race past each letter. Hours pass in a second. Katie has stopped talking. A salty taste in my mouth and I know my puppydog eyes are attracting attention. I clutch my phone to my thumping chest and burst out the door. My feet are flying, with moments of airlessness, barreling towards the choir office backroom. I ignore my usual hallway acquaintances, their empty waves and hello’s rendering meaningless. When I make it to the secluded office, I duck into the corner. With frantic, poor breathes, I begin punching numbers into my phone, my hand trembling, barely maintaining a grip on the case. My mother picks up.

I tell her that monsters are real.

And that we needed more cranes.