The year is 1957, the morning of my first day in junior high. I walked to school, just as I had my first six years.
This morning is different though, having heard news of the underground tunnel all summer. The tunnel of violence and doom runs under a busy four-lane highway; by rule, it’s the only way you’re allowed to travel.
Darkness consumes my thoughts from the moment I begin my journey.
I approach the tunnel. Questions build. Be bold, or retreat? I convince myself to turn around. To go home.
Tomorrow will be a good day to start junior high.