I stood up, spinning around the aisle. That was when I saw Locker 42.
The heavy steel door was dented inward, a deep, concave crater roughly the size of a boy's shoulders. At the base of the locker, a small, plastic backup inhaler lay crushed into sharp shards, surrounded by a dusting of white medicinal powder.
Someone had not just removed his life-saving equipment. They had thrown him.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the gym floor outside. I turned, clutching the broken canvas harness to my chest, as Officer Davis, the campus resource officer, rounded the corner. His hand rested casually on his utility belt, his expression bored and irritated.
"Ma'am, the building is closed—" he started, before his eyes dropped to the crushed inhaler on the tiles, then up to the dented locker.