The iron gate of Maple Street Elementary stands tall and cold. Morning sun stretches long shadows across the blacktop. Somewhere inside, a bell is winding up.
Thistle grips her oversized backpack strap and tugs it up. Behind her, the iron gate SCREECHES shut, the last kid vanishing inside. She stares at the tall wooden door.
One small hand rests on the cold iron handle. Her fingers curl tight. She does not push.
Thistle shoves her whole shoulder against the wood. It grinds open two inches and stops. She pulls back, leans against the gate, as the BELL BLARES: BONG BONG BONG.
She squeezes her eyes shut and counts: one, two, three. She opens them again. Still standing, still here.
A boy pops from behind the doorframe, taps her arm, and dangles a thick red crayon. "Want to draw a dragon together?" The waxy pine smell fills the air, and Thistle takes it.
Thistle drags the crayon across the paper — wobbly, wobbly, wobbly — then CRACK, it snaps clean in half. The boy holds up his piece: "See? That's the dragon's tooth!" Thistle snorts, her whole face scrunching up.
Thistle sits cross-legged on a tiny red chair, dragging the broken crayon in one long zigzag while the boy drags his half beside it. Two wobbly red lines. The door swings wide behind them — nobody at the gate.
