And sticking out of it, in pieces, was Robin’s jacket.

It wasn’t just torn anymore. It had been cut cleanly across the front. The patches we added hung loose. The collar had been completely separated.

I stood there, silent, staring.

“Where’s my sister?” I finally asked.

I heard her before I saw her.

Robin stood a few feet away, a teacher gently holding her shoulders. She was crying, repeating that she wanted to go home.

I crossed the hallway in four steps. “Robin.”

She turned and grabbed my jacket with both fists, pressing her face into my chest.

“Eddie… they ruined it again.”

I held her tightly.

Principal Dawson stepped out. “Some kids cornered her before first period. A teacher intervened, but it was already done.” He paused. “I’m sorry, son. We should’ve gotten there faster.”

I nodded, needing a moment before speaking. Then I let go of Robin, walked to the trash can, and picked up every piece.

I held them in the hallway light and made a decision.

Turning to the principal, I said, “I want to speak to the students involved. In the classroom. Now.”

He looked at me, then nodded. “Follow me.”

We walked down the hall together—Robin beside me—and I kept my pace steady. I wasn’t going in angry. I was going in clear. And in my experience, clarity carries further than anger.

I reached back and took Robin’s hand. She held on.

The classroom door was open. The students looked up as we entered.