The hallway is an empty riverbed, smooth and barren. At three o’clock classroom doors open like dams. Gullies of teens stream out, to become one flowing body. A torrent of fauxhawks and ponytails channels along the linoleum. The drowned boy floats along just below the surface, caught in an undercurrent, bobbing past the sightless stares of teachers. He bumps into lockers, is scraped along concrete walls, swirled in and out of bathroom stalls, whirled past indifferent pools of preoccupation to be swept out in a current of apathy and oversight into a sea of needles and broken glass.