Migrators by Ike Hamill

her shuffle my meetings around tomorrow morning. Do you think we could drop in and talk to the Vice Principal? I want to see that video.”
    “What about Joe?”
    “I think he should stay here. He’ll be okay alone for an hour.”
    “Yeah. We can tell him he’s not to leave his room for any reason. Give him a jar to pee in. Are you sure you want to see that video?”
    “I need to,” she said. “I don’t want to, but I need to.”
    X • X • X • X • X
    Alan’s eyes flew open.
    He’d heard five running steps. They sounded like they’d come from right outside the bedroom door. He slipped one leg and then the other from underneath the covers. Alan glanced back—Liz didn’t stir as he tiptoed across the bedroom carpet. At least it didn’t look like she stirred. The only light in the room was the dim light of stars and the green glow from the clock. Alan knelt by the door, listening.
    It was probably just a dream , he thought. But it was so clear.
    Alan reached up for the door handle.
    So lightly that he wondered if it was his own heartbeat, he heard three knocks.
    Knock, knock, knock.
    Alan stayed his hand.
    Knock, knock—a little louder.
    Alan grabbed the handle and popped open the weird latch. As he opened the door, a wedge of black met his eyes. He opened the door a little more and he saw the outline of a small person.
    “Dad?” his son’s voice whispered from the dark.
    Alan opened the door the rest of the way.
    “Joe—what’s going on? Why are you up?”
    “Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”
    Alan stood and slipped out into the hall. He pulled the door mostly shut behind himself and felt on the wall for the switch. Joe squinted against the bright light.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I just want to sleep with you,” Joe said.  
    “Did you have a bad dream?”
    “No.”
    “Were you running around up here?”
    “No,” Joe said. He shook his head emphatically.
    “Come on,” Alan said. He put his hand on his son’s back and turned him towards his own room. “Let’s go talk about it.”
    Alan turned on the light on Joe’s desk and sat next to his son on the bed.
    “Tell me what’s wrong.”
    “I don’t know,” Joe said. “I just felt lonely and I couldn’t sleep. I want to sleep with you tonight that’s all.”
    “Joe, you’re twelve years old. I can sit with you here until you get back to sleep, but you’re too old to come sleep with us.”
    “I know.”
    “Joe, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” Alan said. He rubbed Joe’s back. His skin felt cold through his pajamas. Alan pressed his palm to Joe’s forehead—it felt cold. “Do you feel okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Are you upset about today?”
    “I guess,” Joe said.
    A cold breeze sent goosebumps crawling over Alan’s arms. “Why is your window open?”
    “I don’t know,” Joe said.
    Alan got up and shut the window. He turned the latch. Out in the dark, he thought he saw the shape of an animal skitter across the road. Alan pulled the drapes.
    “Get under the covers. I’ll find you another blanket,” Alan said. The room had a big closet. It held a bureau and a few shelves. Alan pulled down a thick wool blanket. It had the lingering smell of the cedar chest where it had been stored before it found its way to Joe’s closet. Alan shook out the blanket and spread it across Joe’s bed. The boy was pressed up against the wall.
    “Try to get some sleep,” Alan said.
    “Can I come get you if I have a bad dream?”
    “Of course, Joe. Do you want a nightlight?”
    “No,” Joe said.
    Good thing, Alan thought. I didn’t really have one to offer.
    “Good night, Joe.”
    “Night, Dad.”
    X • X • X • X • X
    SEPTEMBER 19

    AFTER THEY watched the footage for the second time, Liz asked Mr. Beal to let it roll a little longer. Alan and Liz watched their son run after the little girl—not to help her up, but to grab his lunch bag before he turned and ran away.
    Mr. Beal—the Vice Principal of