Miles Between

Ms. Carter found the first drawing while clearing out desks at the end of the day. Just a loose sheet, ends bent and folded, streaks of gray dragged across one side by restless hands.

At first glance, it was a house. Four windows, but no door. Also the windows weren’t empty squares. They’d been filled, every inch, with black strokes so dense the paper had nearly torn.

The next sheet showed a family at a table. Plates neat, forks lined straight. Every face, though, had been scratched out, marker lines pressed down hard enough to split the page.

Further down, the shapes grew stranger. A figure sat on the floor, head bent low. From the center of the page stretched arms. Not straight, but bent backward at the elbow, joints folded the wrong way, fingers warped like broken branches. One hand held a thumb sprouting from the middle of the palm.

Ms. Carter stopped. The pages crackled in her grip. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

At the back of the room, Miles sat alone. Legs swinging under the desk. Eyes on her.

“These are yours?” her voice low, almost caught in her throat.

He nodded.

“Can you tell me what they mean?”

Instead of answering, Miles looked past her, toward the corner where the ceiling met the wall. “They don’t like faces,” he said.

She swallowed hard. “Who doesn’t?”

He shrugged, still watching the corner. “The ones that watch.”

She folded the papers against her chest. “Alright,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

When dismissal came, and the room emptied into the clatter of chairs, doors, and sneakers squeaking down the hall, she stacked the drawings into a folder and pressed it flat with her hand.

“Maritza,” she said, keeping her voice low, “will you walk Miles down to see Dr. Grimaldi?”

The boy was already standing by the door, backpack dangling from one strap, waiting without being told. He followed Maritza out without a word, the straps pulled so tight it looked like he was trying to disappear inside it.

***

The carpet in Dr. Grimaldi’s office had that old coffee smell. Bitter and baked in. Lemon cleaner clung to the desk, but the coffee won. A lamp sat placed near the desk, its glow not quite reaching the shelves. Binders, books, labels thick with dust.

Miles sat low in the chair, feet off the floor, shoulders drawn forward. His fingers kept tracing the ring on the chain around his neck. The light caught it every few seconds.

Dr. G tried the easy opening. “So, Miles, I heard you’ve been drawing a lot. Monsters and such?”

Miles shrugged without looking up.

“Want to tell me about them?”

Another shrug.

Dr. G tapped his pen once, then left the silence there a beat longer before changing the subject. “That’s a nice ring you’ve got there.” He nodded toward the chain at Miles’s neck, where the silver caught the light. “Where’d you get it?”

Miles’s fingers closed around it. “He gave it to me.”

“Your dad?”

His lips twitched, a smile half-born and abandoned. “It was his.”

Dr. G nodded slowly, pen moving across the page. “Do you want to talk about what happened to your dad?”

Miles’s looked up to the ceiling, tracing the lines between the tiles as though reading something there. “He made him go away.”

Dr. G paused, pen hovering. “Who made him go away?”

Miles’s eyes looked to the far corner of the office. Shadows gathered there where the light of the lamp didn’t reach, nothing more than the darkness between a filing cabinet and the wall. Miles stared like he was watching something breathe.

“The one who gave me this.” His hand tightened around the ring.

Dr. G followed his gaze, saw nothing but stacked folders. He cleared his throat. “When you say he, do you mean… someone you imagine?”

Miles shook his head. “Not imagine.”

“Can other people see him?”

“You won’t believe me, anyway.”

Dr. G jotted something down, though his eyes stayed on Miles. He kept his tone warm. “It sounds like this someone helps you feel safe.”

Miles turned back to him then, eyes flat, unblinking. “He doesn’t help me. He stops them.”

“Stops who?”

“The ones who yell. The ones who hit.”

The pen hesitated mid-word, then carried on. Dr. G stayed quiet, waiting.

But Miles wasn’t finished.

“He doesn’t like when they don’t listen,” the boy said, voice quiet, steady, certain. “So he makes them stop.”

***

The Greeleys’ house always smelled faintly of cinnamon. The kind that came from candles, not baking. Mrs. Greeley kept them lit on the mantle. Curtains drawn neat. Couch cushions fluffed and angled just right. Family photos lined the wall, all smiling faces, already grown and gone.

Miles knew he didn’t belong in those pictures. He was the foster kid at their table, expected to follow the same rules their children once had.

At dinner, Mr. Greeley bowed his head and said grace in a voice that rumbled low and firm, his hand gripping Mrs. Greeley’s wrist until she closed her eyes, too.

“Miles,” Mrs. Greeley said, sliding a plate toward him, “you need to eat everything tonight. No wasting. Some children don’t get a meal this nice.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mr. Greeley scraped his fork across the plate. His eyes stayed on the smear of gravy as he spoke. “You sit so quiet... makes people think you’re sneaky. You don’t want people thinking that, do you?”

Miles kept his eyes on the plate, chewing slow. He swallowed before answering. “No, sir.”

After dinner, Miles rinsed dishes while Mrs. Greeley dried. Her towel had gone thin in patches, the print almost rubbed out. She hummed a hymn, sharp on the high notes.

When Miles put his plate back in the cupboard, Mr. Greeley’s keys tapped his belt loop with every step. The sound trailed him down the hall, steady as a clock that refused to stop.

In his room, Miles laid flat on the bed. The chain around his neck caught the dim light, the ring pressing cool against his skin. He stared at the ceiling, but the corner pressed in. Shadows gathered there like they were listening.

***

By the end of the week, another stack of drawings sat on Miles’s desk. Ms. Carter found them after the class filed out for recess. Sneakers squealed across the tile. Voices echoed down the hall.

This time it wasn’t houses. It was faces. Circles with large Xs placed over the eyes, mouths stretched thin, lines so heavy they left grooves you could feel with a fingertip. On one, the mouth had been drawn over and over. Wider each time. Until it swallowed the whole face.

She set the paper down slow, like it might burn through if she held it too long.

“Strange little artist you’ve got there,” Maritza said, leaning over her shoulder. Her tone was light, but her mouth pinched in a way that didn’t match her voice.

“Mm.” Ms. Carter placed the pages into a pile, the side of her hand leaving faint creases. “We’ll add these to the folder.”

When recess ended, the kids tumbled back in. Cheeks flushed. Hair stuck to their foreheads. Miles slid into his seat without a word. His collar was folded under. A bruise, faint yellow, just at the base of his throat. The chain nearly covered it. Almost.

Ms. Carter’s chest tightened. She bent to adjust the pile of math worksheets, voice steady though her pulse wasn’t. “Miles, can you stay a moment after class?”

He nodded without looking up, pencil already scratching at his paper.

***

That night, Ms. Carter lay in bed with the folder on her nightstand. She had slipped it into her bag by reflex, meaning to drop it off at the office, but she hadn’t. The manila edges stuck out beneath her lamp like something waiting to be opened.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Even the refrigerator paused before its next hum.

She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. The drawings came up anyway. Windows blacked to nothing. Mouths stretched until they split the page. Arms bent the wrong way.

Her pulse quickened. She turned the lamp back on.

The folder still sat there, ordinary as bills or student essays. She reached for it, then pulled her hand back. She didn’t want to look again. Didn’t want to see what she’d missed the first time.

Instead, she walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and stood at the sink. Staring through her own reflection in the window. The street was empty, washed silver in the moonlight.

And still, for a second, she thought she saw movement. A shadow tilted across the lawn. Wrong-shaped. Too slow for a branch. Too fast for a person.

She blinked. It was gone.

She shut the curtain and went back to bed, but sleep didn’t come easy.

***

Morning rain slicked the streets. Tires hissed under Ms. Carter’s car. She turned onto Ashbury, coffee cooling in the cupholder, her mind already on the spelling test waiting on her desk.

Up ahead, by the bus stop, a boy stood alone. Backpack hanging from one strap. Head tilted low.

She slowed. Rolled the window down. “Morning, Miles,” she called, forcing cheer into her voice.

Water slid off his hair in sheets, his head bowed, eyes locked somewhere she couldn’t follow.

Traffic pressed behind her. She blinked, glanced forward, then back again. The sidewalk was empty. Only puddles rippled where the rain tapped.

She clenched the wheel until her knuckles whitened. She shook her head once, sharp, and drove on. She’d see him in class. Kids had a way of turning up where you least expected.

By the time she pulled into the lot, three district cars were already lined at the curb. Superintendent Jameson stood with two board members, rain slickers over their suits, speaking in low voices to the principal.

Ms. Carter approached, her bag heavy on her shoulder. Jameson turned to her. “We need to ask about one of your students,” he said. “Miles Merrick. The boy staying with the Greeleys. How has he seemed lately?”

Her next word snagged, caught between breath and voice. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, buying herself a breath. “Quiet. Keeps to himself. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have friends, really.”

The board members exchanged looks.

“There was… an incident at the Greeleys' home last night,” Jameson said carefully. “Miles is with the police now. They’ll want to speak with you later.”

Behind her, the school doors opened. Kids’ voices spilled into the damp air. Calling out, laughing, dropping backpacks on the classroom floor.

Ms. Carter nodded. The words caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. She adjusted the strap on her shoulder, though it didn’t need fixing.

While adjusting the strap, she caught a glimpse at the far end of the lot. A figure, still and gray against the rain. Watching. She squinted, trying to be sure. Too far. Too blurred.

When she blinked, it was gone.