Pepper climbs the short steps. Her yellow raincoat flaps wide like a little sail. She grips her green strap and squints up at the enormous building.
The front door groans open, creaking. Cool hallway air rolls out, rolls out, rolls out, until it reaches her yellow coat at the threshold.
The hallway bends left, then right, then back left again. The kids keep walking past her. Nobody glances down at the little yellow coat.
Room 1. Room 2. Not hers, not hers, not hers. Her yellow coat bumps the shiny wall between the doors. Bump. Bump.
She turns the corner. Ten steps ahead, another yellow coat floats in the still grey air. A little ghost, swaying. Not hers.
She spins. Round and round and round. The hallway blurs into rings of tile and white. The yellow coat whirls. Whirls. Whirls.
She stops. One breath. Two. Three. Above the next door, a small blue sign: ROOM 3. Her door. Just hers.
Pepper pushes the door open. The tall teacher drops to her knees on the tile, arms stretched wide. "You're exactly where you belong, little one."
Her shoulders come down, down, down, off her ears. The green backpack thuds softly against her heels on the tile. The teacher stays kneeling, smiling.
The yellow coat hangs on the hook by the door, dripping. She pulls up a little chair. Stamps her wet boot once. Twice. Settles in.