Micah had been up since before dawn, ridiculously excited for his first day back in school. Nothing mattered right now, not his parents, not Zeke, not this werewolf bullshit, nothing. The rising sun cast the three-story high school in dramatic shadows and highlights, igniting it in a natural spotlight against a backdrop of honey and cinnamon hills. The world was a stage, and the institute of learning was the leading lady. He sighed happily as he took it in. He had been happy here, growing up. He had earned his best friends and his first academic recognitions within those walls. Now, just as the year before, he would be guiding kids like him through those rotes and rituals, building better brains and expanding their imaginations. Micah had the good fortune of his skills, passions, and needs all revolving around a unique profession. The more he learned about the world and the people in it, the more he appreciated just how lucky he’d been to find his place.

The wide, brown steps were like open arms to him, beckoning him to come within the sturdy brick walls. The double doors opened silently under his touch, swinging him into the cathedral of the main hall. Massive windows rose up before and behind him, casting rectangles of flaming orange across the triple-tone green of the tiles. The maroon swatch of fresh paint around the bottom half of the wall had been topped this year in a thin stripe of gold, a bold disconnect between the deep wine color and the sky blue which rose up to the bare, sturdy rafters. Marble-plated staircases rose in hidden stairwells in the north-east and south-west corners of the school, but in the center, just across from the massive theater, was the main staircase. As wide as two classrooms, it swept in an L-shape off of the main hall and up to the second and third floors. Behind it, the office was already bustling with activity. Before it, the library was cool and dark, sleeping like a dragon, exciting his anticipation. So many words were contained in those windowed walls, so many ideas just aching to be shared.

He ran up the wide staircase, stopping at the first landing to gaze out of the window. In the distance, he watched the bus convoy depart from the central station, kicking up dust across the desert. In thirty minutes, those busses would be full. In forty-five, they would pull into the parking lot and spill their load of fresh, young minds, listless after a long summer, ready to be stirred to action. With a sharp, happy sigh, Micah completed his journey to the second floor and found his new classroom. They had moved him from last year, put him in the larger classroom with two full walls of windows. His classes had been full to bursting last year, and more kids tried to sign up every week. The administration had caved to the pressure and expanded his class by twelve seats per period. He couldn’t be happier about it, and he hoped that the school would follow his lead and start offering more classes like it. There was nothing teenagers needed more than practical skills that they could use in the real world to earn them financial security and freedom.

His happy whistle echoed off of the hallways as he veritably skipped to his classroom and unlocked the door. He propped it open, more to cultivate a feeling of welcome within himself than anything else, and took a long, critical look at his walls. He had been in the week before, hanging posters and arranging materials, and he was still as satisfied with it as he had been when he had finished. The colors were complementary, the fonts were clear and easy to read, and the phrases made sense. If not at first glance, then certainly after the first lesson.

L.E.A.R.N. Your Characters! Suggested the first one. L. Listen to their dialog! E. Eavesdrop on their history! A. Act out their body language! R. Remember their beliefs! N. NEVER make them perfect!

Perfection is Predictable! The next one declared. Keep you readers on their toes!

“The ballet dancing kitten was a nice touch,” he congratulated himself. Well, the graphic designer who came up with the idea, anyway. He just signed off on it. “It was a good signature,” he amended with a self-deprecating chuckle. The remaining posters were just as aesthetically pleasing and satisfactorily informative. He flitted around the room, turning on the little word processors that he had been granted for the year, on the condition that his students not break them. Since his class was elective for eleventh and twelfth grades, he wasn’t too concerned about it. They would want their tools to work as much as he wanted them to work, wouldn’t they? Besides, he was positive that they would get a lot more accomplished this year now that they weren’t constrained by pen and paper. Typing was so much faster, and stories were easier to plot with the proper equipment.

With the excitement of a child at Christmas, Micah bounded to the window when he heard the first of the busses squeal to a stop. Kids poured out in a dramatic mixture of personalities, from the chattering, animated morning people to the zombified, from the jocks already in their gym clothes to the grunge kids shuffling over to smoke before the first bell. This eclectic patchwork of personalities gave him life, made every day a new adventure for him. He checked his list for first period. Full class of juniors, three-quarters female. He wondered, as he bounced on the balls of his feet, how many of them would be morning people, and how many would need an injection of thrilling prose.

The bell rang and he jumped like a hyperactive Chihuahua, bouncing over to the doorway. Voices drifted up the stairs, harmonizing with the thunder of a thousand feet, and began splitting off to stream through the hallways to their various destinations. One girl walked through his door, smelling of smoke, with a dreamy look in her eye. He greeted her, and she only smiled, drifting past him to her seat. The next smelled of Dove soap and cheap perfume. As more and more kids filled the room, he began to notice that he was identifying them by smell first, and visual cues second; a drastic change from the year before. He couldn’t have described what any of his kids smelled like last year, and even recognizing it made him feel a bit creepy. When all the seats were filled, he looked over his class with a happy, anticipatory sigh.

“Good morning, class!” He said. His excitement was infectious, and half-awake students began to brighten. “Welcome to creative writing. I’m so happy you’re here! If your counselor didn’t tell you, or even if they did, I want to remind you that you will be getting college credit for this class. But! That is not the most important part! The most important part is after this class, you will be able to write fiction better than eighty percent of the self-published, and even some traditionally published, authors out there. Who’s excited to get started?”

A murmur floated around the classroom. “I said, who’s excited to get started!” Micah bellowed, leaping on top of his desk. That drew a much larger reaction, and he was satisfied. He settled into his upbeat rhythm, guiding the curious minds of his students. He couldn’t have asked for a better day; it was warm, but not too warm. The students were alert and invested, and even the sleepy ones clung to his words as if they were gold. He loved teaching this class, and was even more grateful for it when he saw the dour faces of the algebra teachers later that day. Every once in awhile, Micah got very lucky. This was one of those times.

After school was out, Micah decided to take his excess energy to the gym. He got off a few minutes before Zeke did, and they usually did their gym sessions together during the school year. Micah, whistling happily to his car, pulled out his phone and called Zeke. It rang twice and went to voicemail. Confused, because that really never happened, Micah called again. Three rings, then voicemail.

“Hi Zeke, it’s Micah. I’m headed your way, so if you want to do the rounds with me I’m ready. I’ll see you soon!” Micah hung up and started his car, then immediately received a text message.

Can’t talk now. Call you later.

It threw Micah off slightly. After work was their time, and had been since they landed these jobs. Something probably came up, Micah thought. Nothing to get upset about. He whistled all the way to the gym, looking forward to re-engaging with his preferred routine. Summer was for outdoor sports and natural exercise. Fall and winter were for intense training cycles at the gym. Micah enjoyed routine as much as he enjoyed adventure. Really, he was happy with just about anything; reintroducing himself to his teaching schedule made him happiest of all. He whistled merrily as he stepped out of his car and jogged into the gym. He hoped that he could catch Zeke before he left, just to see him for a moment, but he was disappointed.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Rebecca, the receptionist commented. “Don’t you usually work out with Zeke?”

“Yeah,” Micah said, wrinkling his brow. “Usually.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said as she swiped his membership card. “But he took off as soon as his shift was over.”

“Did he seem upset?” Micah asked.

She glanced at him nervously, then swept a furtive eye around the reception desk. She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He seemed pissed,” she told him. “He’s been a complete ass ever since he got back from lunch. Something turned his stomach hardcore.”

“Huh,” Micah said with a frown. “He didn’t happen to say what it was?”

“Not to me,” she said apologetically, shaking her head. “He isn’t really the sharing type, you know. He’s a poster boy for the whole still waters running deep deal. At least I hope they run deep, otherwise those good looks are wasted on a shallow grump.”

“They’re deep enough,” Micah said with a little laugh. “Thanks, Rebecca.”

“Enjoy your workout!” She said brightly. She always said it brightly; it was ingrained into her speech patterns by now.

Waving, Micah walked away into the locker room to change, then jogged back out to the treadmills. He usually started by running three easy miles, just to warm up. Generally, he topped out at seven miles per hour and maintained it for a couple of miles; but the speed wasn’t as important to him as the heart rate, so he strapped on the wrist monitor and started the machine. Headphones in and music on, Micah started to run. Every few minutes, he would glance down at the heart rate monitor. Five miles per hour and it hadn’t changed. Six, seven, eight...no change. Frowning, Micah pressed his fingers to his pulse to double-check the numbers. They were accurate. He continued increasing the speed, and got a little response at ten miles per hour, but not enough to warm him up. He maxed out the speed on the machine to fifteen miles per hour, more than double his usual top speed, and was finally rewarded with a jump in his heart rate. A small one, but enough to get his blood moving.

“Eye of the tiger...more like eye of the werewolf,” Micah muttered, interrupting his own singing.

He looked to his left with a grin, wanting to share the unbelievable improvement with Zeke, and was rudely reminded that Zeke wasn’t there. The pudgy, sweating man beside him glared fiercely at him as he struggled with his five mile per hour jog, and Micah quickly looked away. He hoped that Zeke was alright. It really wasn’t like him to miss workouts, especially without an explanation. Micah ran, trying to push his worries out through his pores and failing miserably. He ran ten miles without even noticing, then stopped.

“I wonder if I can bench press more,” he mumbled to himself as he wiped down the machine. His treadmill neighbor was still shooting daggers at him through his eyes, and Micah made a face at him before crossing the room to the bench press.

“And now I have no spotter,” he sighed. “Zeke better be doing something important.”