I should have pushed harder. Should have seen the signs. But I was working double shifts that month—Jenkins was out with back surgery, and I was covering his sector of the school too. By the time I’d finish my rounds, check all the classrooms, and make sure everything was locked up tight, I was dead on my feet.
Still, I noticed the bruises. A scrape on his cheek one Tuesday. A split lip the following week.
“Basketball in gym,” he explained when I asked.
“Tripped on the stairs,” he said another time.
I believed him because I wanted to. Because the alternative meant failing him, and I’d already done enough of that when his mother left.
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