FRIDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 1998 — EAST RACCOON ELEMENTARY — 08:12am
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The school door closed behind him.
The hallway stretched ahead, bright and loud and ordinary. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The smell of floor wax and packed lunches and something faintly sour, like milk left too long in a locker. Children’s paintings lined the walls — finger-painted trees, autumn leaves, a solar system with Earth too small and Jupiter too orange. A bulletin board with an announcement about flu season, the Umbrella logo in the corner. Owen walked past it. His backpack was heavy on his shoulders. His trainers were still damp from the sprinklers on Cedar Avenue.
The classroom door was open. Mrs. Calloway was at her desk, her reading glasses perched on her nose, a clipboard in front of her. She looked up when Owen came in and gave him a small nod. He wasn’t late. He was exactly on time, which was unusual, and she noticed but didn’t comment.
The room was still filling up. Chairs scraped on the floor. Voices rose and fell in the particular chaos of a classroom before the bell. The radiator ticked beneath the window. The hamster, Biscuit, was running on his wheel in his tank by the door — a faint rhythmic squeaking that had been there so long no one heard it anymore. The morning light came through the window, the same weak-lemonade colour as his bedroom curtains, and fell across his desk in a warm square. A poster beside the blackboard read “Flu Season: Wash Your Hands!” with the Umbrella Health logo in the corner.
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A boy in the back row already had his head down on his desk, his arms folded around it like a pillow. Someone two rows behind Owen muffled a dry, hacking cough into his sleeve. Near the window, a girl was scratching the inside of her arm — a slow, steady motion.
Owen sat down heavily. He dropped his backpack beside his chair and propped his chin on his hand. The tiredness settled over him like a weight, warm and heavy, pressing him into his seat. The world softened at the edges. The radiator warmth was distant and pleasant. The voices around him blurred into a soft, layered hum, like sounds heard through water. He blinked slowly. His eyelids wanted to close but he kept them open.
Two rows ahead, near the front, a girl with pale blonde hair was sitting very straight at her desk. She wasn’t talking to anyone. She looked tired. Owen’s gaze drifted over her and moved on.
“Check it.”
Michael slid into the seat beside him, dropping a creased copy of Nintendo Power onto Owen’s desk. The cover was a sleek blue spacecraft against a black background, orange boost flames trailing behind it. F-Zero X. September 1998. Michael had been trying to beat the expert tracks for three weeks.
Owen looked at the cover. His brain took a moment to catch up. “We don’t have an N64.”
“I know we don’t have an N64. I’m saying we get one. Then you can crash six times on Death Wind too. It’s called a shared experience, Owen. Look it up.”
“With what money?”
“Your money. My money. Combined money. It’s called pooling resources.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“I have five dollars.”
“That’s not enough for a console.”
“It’s a start. It’s the start of a console. Plus, by the time we save up, Ocarina of Time will be out. November. Have you seen the screenshots? The horse? The sword? It’s gonna be huge.”
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“Everything’s gonna be huge,” Owen said. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to.
“This is different. This is Zelda. In 3D. It’s going to change everything.” Michael tapped his fingers on the desk — a rapid, rhythmic drumming. His other hand came up and scratched absently at the side of his neck.
Benny dropped into the seat in front of Owen and spun around, his Raccoon Sharks sweatshirt bunched at the elbows. His hair was sticking up in the back. “What’re we talking about.” It wasn’t a question.
“Zelda,” Michael said. “November.”
“Oh, forget Zelda. My cousin has an N64. GoldenEye. Four players. You can be Oddjob and just run around slapping everyone’s ankles. It’s broken. It’s so broken.”
“That’s cheating,” Owen said.
“It’s not cheating if it’s in the game. It’s — strategy.” Benny leaned further over the back of his chair. “Also, Pokémon comes out next week. Monday. Red and Blue. I’m getting Blue. My cousin’s getting Red. We’re going to trade.”
“You’ve been talking about Pokémon since June,” Michael said.
“Because it’s going to be huge. Like, actually huge. Bigger than Zelda.”
“Nothing’s bigger than Zelda.”
“This is. It’s got a hundred and fifty monsters. You can catch all of them. You can make them fight each other. It’s —”
“A cartoon,” Michael said.
“It’s a phenomenon, Michael. Look it up.”
Maya arrived during this and sat across the aisle, opening her book to a page marked with a torn corner of notebook paper. She had a calm, steady way of being in a room without needing to fill it with noise.
Benny noticed her immediately. “Maya. Back me up. Pokémon. Phenomenon or cartoon?”
“I don’t know what that is,” Maya said without looking up.
Benny stared at her. “You don’t — how do you not — it’s everywhere. It’s on TV. It’s on the back of cereal boxes. There’s a Pikachu on my toothpaste.”
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“I don’t watch much TV.”
“You’re killing me. You’re actually killing me.” He turned back to Owen and Michael. “She’s killing me. Maya is personally killing me with lack of pop culture knowledge.”
“You’re very loud about it,” Maya said, turning a page.
“I’m passionate. There’s a difference.”
Benny leaned further over the back of his chair, his grin widening. “Did you guys see The Mask of Zorro yet? My dad took me last weekend. The sword fights. There’s this one part where he does a backflip off a horse and lands on another horse. Two horses. At the same time.”
“I saw it in July,” Owen said.
“Jamie took him,” Michael added.
“It was cool,” Owen said.
“Cool,” Benny repeated, drawing the word out. “That’s it? Cool? There’s a guy doing flips off horses and you’re like, ‘it was cool.’”
“The sword fights were good.”
“The sword fights were good. Listen to this guy. Academy Award winner Owen Miller. ‘The sword fights were good.’”
“It’s a movie, Benny.”
“It’s cinema, Owen. There’s a difference.” Benny held up his hands like he was framing a shot. “You’ve got to appreciate the artistry. The vision. The —”
“The flips,” Michael said.
“The flips. Exactly. The flips are the vision.”
Michael flipped his magazine shut. “You know what’s cinema? The Episode I trailer. I saw it before Zorro. The pod race. The lightsaber at the end. I nearly died.”
“It’s not out till May,” Benny said. “May. That’s basically next year.”
“Eight months.”
“A lifetime.”
“You have no patience.”
“I have some patience. I waited for Tony Hawk. My thumbs are destroyed. Look.” Benny held up his thumbs for inspection. “Crippled.”
“Those are regular thumbs,” Owen said.
“Regular thumbs can’t do a 900. I can almost do a 900. It’s —”
“Impossible,” Owen said. “You told us.”
“It’s almost possible. There’s a difference.”
Maya looked up from her book for the first time. “What’s a 900?”
“A skateboard trick,” Benny said, swiveling to face her. “You spin two and a half times in the air. Tony Hawk did it. I’m going to do it.”
“You’re going to break your arm.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. For the sport.”
“You don’t have a skateboard,” Michael said.
“I have a cousin with a skateboard.”
“You have a lot of cousins.”
“I have exactly three cousins. They all have excellent stuff.” Benny turned back to Owen. “You’re quiet this morning. Quieter than usual, I mean. You’re like — extra quiet.”
Owen shrugged. “Tired.”
Benny studied him for a moment, then seemed to accept this. “Well, wake up. We’ve got fractions later. Mrs. Calloway’s going to ask you a question and you’re going to say something about denominators and it’s going to be wrong and it’s going to be hilarious.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Emotional support. Comic relief. Skateboarding tips.”
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“Your skateboarding tips are terrible,” Michael said.
“My skateboarding tips are visionary. You just don’t understand the sport.”
Owen listened to them — Benny defending his imaginary skateboarding career, Michael flipping through his magazine, Maya turning a page. Their voices layered over each other, the comfortable rhythm of friends who’d done this every morning since September. He propped his chin on his hand. The sounds had gone slightly muffled, as if someone had closed a door between him and the rest of the class. He was still there. He was still listening. But everything felt distant and soft and slow.
In the background, two girls near the window were leaning close together, their voices low and urgent. Owen caught a fragment — “...my dad said there were things in the mountains...” — but the words slid past him like water. A boy near the door was telling someone about a bar on Mercier Street — “...the police bombed the whole block, my cousin saw it, she said there were bodies everywhere...” — but his voice was a murmur under the brighter noise of the room. Benny glanced toward the whispers once, then turned back to Michael, who was now doing an impression of Oddjob’s crouch-run.
Benny, mid-argument about whether Oddjob was actually cheating or just “using the game’s mechanics,” stopped. Blinked. “Wait, what was I —” He shook his head. “What was I saying?”
“Oddjob,” Michael said. “Cheating. Game mechanics.”
“Right. Right. Okay.” Benny blinked again. His stomach made a low, empty sound — loud enough that Owen heard it from across the desk. Benny’s hand came up and scratched absently at the side of his neck. “Itchy. Tasty.”
Michael stared at him. “What?”
“What?”
“You just said ‘itchy tasty.’”
“I did?” Benny frowned, like he was trying to remember something that had already slipped away. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Are you broken?”
“I’m not broken. I’m —” He scratched his neck again, then dropped his hand. “Maybe I’m hungry.”
“You’re definitely broken.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Benny’s grin snapped back into place. “So the thing about Oddjob is —”
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Owen barely noticed. He was watching the light move across his desk, and the tiredness pressed him into his seat, and the morning went on.
“All right, settle down.”
Mrs. Calloway stood at the front of the room, her attendance clipboard in her hand. Her grey hair was pinned back, her reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
“Michael Vazquez.”
“Here.” Michael’s fingers were still tapping on his Nintendo Power. He didn’t look up.
“Benny Choi.”
“Yo.” Benny spun around, still grinning.
“Maya Okonkwo.”
“Here.” Maya didn’t look up from her book.
“Sherry Birkin.”
Sherry lifted her head. “Here.” Her voice was quiet, barely carrying across the room. She didn’t look at anyone.
Mrs. Calloway marked her present and moved on. Owen’s gaze drifted past her to the window. The morning light had crept another inch across his desk.
“Owen Miller.”
He lifted his head. “Here.” His voice was hoarse. Mrs. Calloway peered at him over her glasses for a moment, then marked him present and moved on.
The intercom crackled. Mrs. Kimura’s voice filled the room, thin and metallic through the speaker.
“Good morning, students. A few announcements this morning. First, the lunch menu today is fish sticks with coleslaw and apple sauce.”
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A faint groan from Benny. Michael tapped his fingers.
“Second, a reminder about our flu-season hand-washing campaign. Posters are in every bathroom and soap has been refilled. Please wash your hands regularly throughout the day.”
“Third, the Umbrella Health representative will be visiting next Tuesday to give a presentation on flu prevention and the importance of vaccination. Parents are welcome to attend. Information leaflets will be sent home this afternoon.”
A pause. The intercom hummed.
“Finally —” Mrs. Kimura’s voice shifted slightly, a careful neutrality creeping in. “The school has been advised by the city that a precautionary quarantine is currently in effect for the greater Raccoon City area. This is a routine public health measure related to the industrial incident at Warren Stadium and the ongoing hazmat investigation. The city perimeter is being monitored by the National Guard as a precaution only. At this time, all schools remain open and all classes are proceeding as normal. Buses will be running, though some routes may be delayed. Parents are advised to collect children from the school gates at the end of the day. We will provide updates as they become available. Thank you.”
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The intercom clicked off.
A small ripple moved through the class. Michael stopped tapping his fingers. Benny turned around in his seat and mouthed something at Owen — Owen didn’t catch it. Maya looked up from her book for the first time, her expression unreadable. Sherry’s hands, folded on her desk, tightened almost imperceptibly. Then she was still again.
Mrs. Calloway tapped her clipboard. “All right, settle down. You heard Mrs. Kimura — everything’s normal. Let’s get started.”
The room settled. Owen thought of the television in the kitchen that morning, his father frowning at the screen, the anchor talking about the chemical leak at the stadium, the riots downtown. They’d said people were being taken to hospital. They’d said the police were handling it. They hadn’t said anything about a quarantine.
He looked out the window at the playground, at the trees beyond the fence, at the grey September sky. Everything looked the same as it did five minutes ago.
He propped his chin on his hand. The tiredness was still there, heavy and warm.
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————
FIRST LESSON-09:00am
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The room had settled into the particular quiet that followed announcements — a brief lull before the real work of the morning began. Someone coughed. A chair scraped. Biscuit’s wheel gave a final squeak and went silent.
Mrs. Calloway set her clipboard aside and moved to the centre of the room. “Books away for now. We’re starting something new.”
A collective shuffle as notebooks were opened. Michael shoved his Nintendo Power under his desk. Benny spun around to face the front with exaggerated reluctance.
She wrote on the blackboard: PREDATOR AND PREY.
“Can anyone give me an example of a predator-prey relationship?”
“Lions and zebras,” Benny called out.
“Good. Another?”
“Sharks and — stuff,” Michael said.
“Sharks and seals,” Maya said quietly.
Mrs. Calloway nodded. “The animal kingdom is built on these relationships. Predators hunt. Prey animals survive. And they survive not by being stronger than the predator — because they almost never are — but by being smarter in specific ways.” She turned to the board and began listing. “Stillness. Silence. Staying with the group. Knowing your environment. Not being seen.”
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Owen lifted his head slightly. He knew about these things. Not from books — from watching. The sparrows in the garden, going quiet when a cat came over the fence. Arthur, crouched behind the bins, perfectly still until the pigeon got close enough. The way Jamie used to freeze mid-step when they were playing hide and seek, knowing that movement gave you away.
“Stillness,” Mrs. Calloway said, tapping the first word on the board. “Prey animals know that movement attracts attention. A rabbit in tall grass will freeze rather than run. A deer will stand perfectly still, even when a predator is close, because movement is what triggers the chase. The predator’s eyes are designed to detect motion. If you don’t move, you’re harder to find. Your own eyes work the same way — you notice the bird that takes flight, not the one sitting motionless on the branch.”
Owen thought of the sparrows in the garden. The way they went still when a shadow passed overhead. The way you could walk right past one in a hedge and never know it was there.
“Silence.” She moved down the list. “A bird stops singing when a hawk circles. A fawn doesn’t cry for its mother, even when it’s afraid, because the cry would bring the predator closer. Noise gets you found. This is why cats move quietly. This is why owls have feathers that muffle the sound of their flight. In the wild, sound is a beacon.”
For a moment, Owen thought of his mother’s face in the kitchen — the way her eyes had gone wet and then dry, the way she had looked at him as if he had struck her — and then he pushed it away before it could catch.
Benny, for once, had stopped fidgeting. Michael’s fingers had gone still on his desk.
“Staying with the group.” Mrs. Calloway tapped the third item. “Wolves and lions don’t attack the strong adult in the centre of the herd. They target the one who’s wandered off. The straggler. The one who’s alone. There’s a reason fish swim in schools and birds fly in flocks and zebras stay close together on the savannah. The group is protection. The group is survival. When you’re alone, you’re visible. When you’re alone, you’re vulnerable.”
The radiator ticked. The classroom was warm and quiet and full of the soft sounds of a morning that was still ordinary.
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“Knowing your environment.” The chalk clicked against the board. “Prey animals know their escape routes. Rabbits memorise every burrow entrance. Squirrels know every branch that will hold their weight. If you don’t know how to get out, you don’t survive. This isn’t instinct — it’s learned. Young animals spend weeks exploring their territory, learning the safe paths, the hiding places, the shortcuts. They make mistakes. The ones who learn from them survive. The ones who don’t, don’t.”
“And camouflage.” Mrs. Calloway set the chalk down. “Hiding. Sometimes the best defence isn’t fighting at all — it’s not being seen in the first place. A stick insect on a branch. A flounder on the ocean floor. A fawn, brown and dappled, lying motionless in the leaves. Predators look for shapes that don’t belong. Colours that stand out. Movement where there shouldn’t be movement. If you don’t look like prey, sometimes the predator passes you by.”
Benny scratched at the side of his neck — the same absent motion, the same spot — and let his hand drop without looking at it.
She stepped back from the board. The list was complete. Stillness. Silence. The herd. Know your exits. Hide.
“These aren’t just animal behaviours,” she said. “These are strategies. They’ve been working for millions of years. The animals that use them survive. The ones that don’t, don’t. It’s not about being the strongest or the fastest or the biggest. It’s about being the smartest in the right ways.”
A pause. The radiator ticked. Biscuit’s wheel was silent.
“Any questions?”
Benny’s hand shot up. “What if the predator is also smart?”
“Then the prey has to be smarter.”
“What if the predator is a cheetah? Cheetahs are really fast.”
“Then the gazelle doesn’t try to outrun it. The gazelle zigzags. Cheetahs are fast in a straight line. They can’t turn quickly. The gazelle knows this. It’s not faster — it’s smarter.”
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Benny seemed to consider this. “So the gazelle is like Oddjob.”
Mrs. Calloway blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s a compliment,” Benny said. “To gazelles.”
A girl near the front — not Sherry, someone else — took a water bottle from her backpack and drank. Owen glanced at her, at the bottle, at the way she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then he looked back at the board.
The chalk moved. Mrs. Calloway’s voice droned on, soft and steady. Michael’s fingers had stopped tapping. Maya’s pen moved across her notebook. Benny was slouched in his seat, his head tilted back, his eyes half-closed. Kyle in the back row was still asleep. Biscuit was motionless on his wheel, his nose twitching, his small body perfectly still.
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Sherry was still sitting straight, her eyes on the board, her hands folded. She hadn’t moved.
The morning light crept slowly across Owen’s desk. His chin was propped on his hand. His eyes were open.
The classroom hummed. The lesson went on.52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQZocelHgBd
and then Add to home screen.