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the intricacies of basic math. Finally the ladies

arrived, and I told the story of my visit. At my

insistent urging, they took off for the doctors, and

the waiting began. The morning crawled into the

afternoon without a word from the ladies.

Brandon regained consciousness after lunch, but

he was slow in achieving any level of energy

required for regular schoolwork. His socks had

come back clean and dry, and I had replaced

them while he slept. When he woke with his shoes

off, he put them on without a word. The class

lined up to head outside for our daily hour of

physical training. He sat on the sidelines, as my

other students and I did our workout. After

working up a sweat with calisthenics and yoga in

the warm sun, the boys began their run. I went

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over to Brandon and asked him to walk with me.

Surprisingly he got up eagerly, and we trotted

behind the line. He started talking immediately.

He told me of his friends up North, the drive to

Tennessee and the people he lives with. His mind

seemed to be working at hyper speed, and he

could not keep on a single topic for more than a

few moments. I tried to ask questions, but he

didn’t seem to hear them, as he was talking so

fast. I decided to walk and listen. He didn’t need

any encouragement to open up.

Toward the end of the day, the ladies came back

but did not have the medical information I was

hoping for. They had gotten caught up with

another assignment for another client and were

lucky to have gotten the medical release where it

needed to go. Though disappointed, I understood

their predicament, and I thanked them for

running around for me. Luckily, I had my

conversation with Brandon to reflect on. His

rambling flood of information was a lot to digest

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and dissect. While his parents had proved to be

untrustworthy, Brandon’s stories seemed to be

linear and sensible. His steady stream of speech

made me believe at least the majority of his story.

A few days went by, and Brandon came to school

in his typical zombified-state. We developed a

routine in which he would sleep in the morning

and get his academics in the afternoon while the

other students were involved in independent

activities. Each day I would take off his shoes and

have his socks washed while he slept. One day he

came in particularly dirty. The ladies went to the

school’s clothes closet where lost and found items,

in addition to donated items, wound up. They

found some clothes that fit Brandon and had him

change his clothes in the restroom before he went

down for his morning nap. We sent his clothes

across the hall to be cleaned. The day got ahead

of us all, and before we knew it, it was time for

the kids to go home. Someone realized that

Brandon did not have his clothes, so we ran next

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door, grabbed his clothes, and stuffed them in his

backpack as we shuffled him along to the bus.

First thing in the morning, I was called to the

office, and as I approached I saw Brandon and

his father through the large glass walls of the

office. Brandon’s father was holding the clothes

we had sent him home in the day before. As soon

as I stepped into the office the yelling intensified.

My principal promptly stopped the man’s public

tirade and suggested we step into her office where

the three of us could speak privately. Her

presence was very commanding, and she was

exceptionally effective at controlling the most out-

of-control parents.

In her office, Brandon’s father attempted to yell,

but was deftly quieted by the principal. In softer

tones, he expressed his frustration over his child

coming home in clothes that were not his, while

his own clothes were stuffed into his bag. When

he stopped, my principal spoke of the high

standards her teachers have for their students and

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the positive impact a clean appearance can have

on a child. She spoke clearly and calmly, showing

a lot of respect for the man and his feelings. Then

she turned to me, as if to suggest it was my turn. I

took responsibility for having sent Brandon home

in strange clothes but assured his father that they

were new and clean. I also told him that we had

cleaned Brandon’s clothes at school because he

had gotten dirty and we did not want him to have

to go through his day wearing dirty clothes.

Insinuating that he had gotten dirty at school, not

that he had come to school in such a condition.

With my vague explanation, I was sure not to

blame, offend, or upset anyone. And it worked.

Brandon’s father thanked us for our time,

apologized for the misunderstanding and exited

the office. As we all walked out, the principal and

I noticed that the man had walked by his son

without speaking to or even looking at him. I

woke Brandon up and walked him to class after

thanking my principal for her assistance.

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Then the day came in which our medical release

form had worked its magic. Faxes began to roll in

concerning the doctors the family had visited with

Brandon and the medications he was prescribed.

His prescriptions were not the same medications

that the parents had told us he was taking, more

accurately, he was being prescribed and

dispensed more medications than the family

admitted to giving him and more than Brandon

had told us that he took each morning. As

expected, the prescriptions were for evening

medications that were being given in the morning

to make him drowsy. Brandon had told me

repeatedly that he stayed up most of the night

while his parents entertained people from the

neighborhood. He had told stories of people

coming and going at all hours throughout the

night, and because he slept on the couch, he was

not able to get much sleep. His parents, he said,

gave him his medicine in the morning so he

would sleep through school, so as not to discuss

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what happened in the house at night. He too had

been coached.

When he first told the ladies and me, this fact it

seemed like a plausible story, but now with the

verification that he was indeed being prescribed

evening medications, his story became

significantly more credible. With the situation

teetering on a viable case of abuse and neglect,

our team went back to the principal and informed

her of the new developments. Together we

decided to conduct another home visit, but this

time we would go as a group and present

ourselves as if we were making a typical home

visit. There would be no phone call beforehand.

A few days went by, and we solidified our plan.

We got our story straight for the family regarding

why the principal had accompanied the

classroom staff to the home. When the day came,

the anxiety I felt after the first visit returned. The

day went by too quickly, and I wanted to keep

Brandon after school, so he would not be at home

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while we descended on his family. I put him on

the bus with the rest of the students, and

accompanied by our principal, the ladies and I

drove out toward Brandon’s house.

We met up at a restaurant close to the house and

piled into the principal’s SUV. We drove over in

palpable anticipation. As we pulled into the

driveway, we noticed several cars in the driveway

with various out of state plates. The yard was in

even more disarray than before. More toys, more

trash. We paraded up the walk and onto the

porch. I knocked on the door. There was a quiet

commotion inside the house. A young girl in

tattered clothes opened the door. By the look on

her face she recognized me, but I told her who I

was anyway. She turned around and shouted,

“It’s Mr. Love, Brandon’s teacher.” I heard a

door open and Brandon’s father’s face appeared

around the door.

“Hey, uh, what’s up?” He said shakily.

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My principal stepped forward, and stood in front

of me, introducing herself. The door came open

against its will.

“Can we come in?” She asked as she pushed by

him leading us all into the house. The room was

crowded with five adults standing just inside the

door. We positioned ourselves around the room. I

walked closest to the couch where Brandon was

sitting in the same spot I had seen him in last

time. He had an electronic football game in his

hands. He looked up and put the game down.

“Hey Mr. Love. Do you wanna play Monopoly?”

He asked as he leapt from the couch. “Not now

Bran. We don’t have time for that.” His father’s

voice had an edge of uneasiness. He backed

toward the bedroom door closest to him. The girl

that had opened the door was now in the kitchen

making dinner. Brandon ignored his father and

maneuvered between the adults to a crumbling

stack of games and boxes by the television. He

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found the game and brought it back to the couch

where he proceeded to set it up.

“What piece do you wanna be, Mr. Love?”

Brandon asked as he set out the colorful money.

“I said ‘not now’ Brandon, put the game away.”

His father’s voice was stern this time. Sadly,

Brandon began to pack up the game.

“Brandon, we have that game in class. Tomorrow

morning we’ll play with the class.” I said trying to

cheer him.

“I just wanna play with you and me.” Brandon

replied.

“All right, you got it. You and I will play in the

morning. How’s that?” I said.

At the promise he smiled my smile. “OK,” he

said while he packed up the game with

enthusiasm.

We spoke with Brandon’s father for close to ten

minutes, explaining Brandon’s sleep and

academic issues. We told him that we were

concerned and asked if there was anyway we

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could help. He declined every service we offered.

The young girl in the kitchen called the kids in for

dinner. I watched Brandon abandon the game

and run to the kitchen. He jumped up into a

chair and waited. The girl had cooked dinner for

the other kids. She pulled a cookie sheet full of

fish sticks out of the oven and placed it on the

table. Next to it she slammed down a bottle of

ketchup. One of the other children poured a pile

of ketchup onto the cookie sheet. The cook

dumped a jar of baby food onto the tray of the

high chair then lifted the baby from the floor, and

placed her into position. The baby fed herself

with her hands from the thin pile of mashed food

on the tray while the other kids ate fish sticks and

ketchup from the cookie sheet. In seconds, they

were all done eating. I was trying to return my

attention to the conversation going on in front of

me when I saw several small gray kittens emerge

from the kitchen and into the living room.

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Brandon’s father noticed me looking at the kittens

and changed the subject quickly, “Mr. Love, ya

want some of them kittens? Take as many as you

want. I don’t even know how many there are.”

“No thanks. I’ve got a cat of my own. But I

appreciate the offer.” I said with a smile of

satisfaction.

Sensing it was time to go, my principal

announced our departure. “Well, we’re here if

you need us. Just give us a call or stop by the

school if you need anything. Anything at all.” She

smiled her generous smile and extended her

hand, which was shaken with enthusiasm.

“Thanks for stopping by. Come by any time.

Take care.” He said looking around the room as

he continued shaking the principal’s hand.

We made our exit and piled into the SUV. When

the doors were closed, we all spoke at once. Each

one of us noticed multiple “red flags” that made

us question the safety of not only Brandon, but

that of his siblings as well.

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Brandon did not come to school the next day or

the next. We all became concerned when the

phone number only gave a recording that the

number was out of service. Michelle and Renee

took a drive across town to check the house. They

called from the road to tell me that there were no

cars in the driveway, and that there were a lot of

bags of trash, more than usual, in the front yard

that looked like they’d been picked through by

wild animals. I asked them to come on back to

school so we could think through our next step.

When they arrived, we decided to call the police

and ask them to do a courtesy “welfare check.”

The officer that performed the check came to the

school to tell us that no one was living at the

residence; the house appeared to be abandoned.

Brandon and his family were gone. We never saw