The children scurried into the schoolhouse, the floorboards creaking underneath their feet and sending clouds of dust billowing up into the air, tickling the children’s noses and leaving them coughing and sneezing amidst chuckles. Light filtered through the filthy windowpanes, reflected on the dust in long streams. The vaulted ceiling smelt strongly of damp, musty wood from too many rainy days. The room itself was a dark, dreary sort of space, most of it taken up with rows of rusted desks. A stove sat in the far corner near the door, rapidly falling into disrepair; it would sometimes spew smoke into the classroom, flushing students and teacher alike spluttering and coughing out into the cold winter day. There was one long digital board on the back wall, which acted like a chalkboard of sorts; the screen was slightly disfigured on the ends from neglect, and sometimes during lessons the whole thing would crackle with indignation. The students shuffled to their desks, all too used to the dilapidated surroundings, becoming a tumult of laughter, squeaking chairs, and creaking footfalls.

Poquito was standing in the doorway, trying desperately to shake off the maroon feline. “Stay! You have to keeps out here, Patches.” Poquito was saying to the kitten, who looked up at him with a perplexed expression from the steps. “Lo siento, Kitty! Jimmy and me, we backs soon after school.” And he turned and shut the door on the kitten. Patches sat for a moment on the steps, staring at the door where she had last seen Poquito’s back, and then curled up in abandonment with a grieved sigh.

Jim wiped his eyes with a sniffle. He stood slightly removed from the other children, shoulders bunched. With some hesitancy he wandered to an empty desk, sinking down in the chair. Poquito skipped to the adjacent desk and sat down, grinning with expectation. A small group of kids came over to chat with Poquito, fascinated. Then they noticed Jim slumped in his seat, and, being excessively curious but never-the-less friendly, attempted to catch his attention. They had soon made a game of it, calling his name, making faces, hugging him; but the boy remained as blank as the board. The children abandoned their game, puzzled over their friend’s sudden change. Slowly the students filtered to their seats, and (with much persuasion by the teacher) settled down to a dull murmur.

With all the age levels in the same room, the teacher couldn’t teach them all at the same time; instead she started the younger children off with their work first, then moved on to give lessons to the older kids. The very young kids had already devolved into a numbers game, holding up their fingers to one another as they counted aloud, giggling. For Jim and the others around his age she left to their workbooks; Jim took out a little black book with a tattered leather cover and flipped to the middle. Beaming up at him was a print etching of a daring looking young man, a sack of coins clutched in one hand and a big grin on his face, next to a short story and some questions on the end. Forgetting his troubles for a moment Jim leaned his head on his hands, his feet swinging above the ground as he read the little story. “Robin Hood lived long ago. He was very brave. He was very smart, too. All the poor people loved him. He would sneak up on the rich people and steal their treasures. He gave the treasure back to the poor people. The sheriffs tried to catch him. Robin was too quick for them. He made the rich people very angry. They could not catch him either. Robin was smarter than the rich people. Robin was a hero. He met and married a beautiful lady and lived happily ever after.”

“I wish I could be Robin Hood…” Jim whispered to himself as he took out a pencil and began to answer the questions on the story. He wasn’t working long when he was prodded in the back. Jim twisted around to see Samson sitting behind him, grinning from ear to ear, pencil in hand.

“Hey, Hawkins,” Samson whispered gruffly. “What’s the answer to number three?”

Jim frowned. “That’s cheating.”

“So what? The teacher will never know. Just tell me. Come on, pal.”

Jim felt his blood boil in silent rage. “Why don’t you use your daddy’s money and just buy the answer?” He turned away from Samson’s astonished face, shaking slightly.

Poquito shook his head. “Jimmy, I don’t understand. What are ‘sheriffs’?”

It was almost lunchtime. Jim was ringing his hands nervously; time seemed to moving unbearably slow, and his stomach was gurgling and growling. Breakfast seemed ages ago. He looked up at his teacher attempting to write a list of historical battles on the board. The board buzzed and hissed, the screen flickering. The younger children were all sleeping against the wall, clutching toys and sprawled over one another, crashed from using up all their energy (for the moment, anyhow). Jim felt his eyes droop just looking at them, and he stifled a yawn. Poquito seemed as awake as ever; he was reading Jim’s copy of the little black literature book, intrigued. The young alien’s ears suddenly perked, and he swiveled around to look out the windows by the door. He nudged Jim, who flinched in surprise.

“Jimmy!” Poquito hissed. “Someone coming!”

Jim turned in his seat just as the door cracked open. All the kids who weren’t sleeping or watching the teacher struggle with the board in amusement turned to look at who entered. Jim had to crane his head above the others just to see.

The young man who entered was dressed rather shabbily in baggy miner’s clothing, torn and patched in places, splotched with coal dust. The man’s face was just barely visible under dirty smudges; the only part of him that seemed remotely clean was the man’s jade eyes, glistening with some hint of sorrow as he looked at the children anxiously. At the muttering of the students’ voices the teacher turned from the board and looked at the young man in shock.

The man took off his cap quickly, turning it about in his calloused hands as he rocked on his feet. “I’m sorry to disturb your class, miss,” He said in a rather shaky but pleasant sort of voice, touched with some strain of emergency. “But…” He seemed to hesitate as he looked at the children, and for a moment Jim could have sworn the man’s eyes flickered to him and back again. The miner made up his mind and hurried forward, taking the schoolteacher aside. The children whispered to one another. Jim felt his heart clench when the man and the teacher glanced at him as they talked.

Finally the two seemed to have come to some understanding, and the schoolteacher turned to look at Jim, making sure she had his attention. “Jim Hawkins?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He replied, his voice a little jittery.

“This young man has come to take you home early. Get your stuff.”

Jim looked around, heart pounding as he put together his books and stood up. All the children were staring at him; Samson, Thomas, and Bleacher were huddled and seemed to be snickering about something.

“Hasta luego, Jimmy!” Poquito called after Jim, waving. Jim stumbled to the back of the room, feeling the weight of all the stares. He joined with the young man at the door, and rather reluctantly took the man’s hand. Jim cast one last desperate look at the class before stepping outside. The door groaned to a shut behind them.

The two walked along the road in silence at first, a silent tension growing between them. Jim clung to the man’s hand, wild theories growing in his mind, each more horrible than the last. He finally swallowed his fears and tugged on the man’s hand. “Excuse me, mister,” (The young man looked at the boy in surprise at being addressed this way.) “But what’s the matter? Why’d you take me out?”

The man looked suddenly very anxious. “Oh, well… y-you see, Jim…” His voice stuttered weakly. He cleared his throat and continued. “I work with your dad, and he… well… I was asked to come get you.”

“Why? Is something wrong? Is something wrong with momma? Does she need me?”

“Well… yes and no… that’s not really…” He cast a glance at Jim’s face and mentally gave himself a kick. Just say it, you fool! “You see, your dad had to go home early from work, too,” He said slowly. “Your… your father is very sick.”

Jim frowned in concern. “Is he okay? He’s okay, isn’t he? He’ll get better, right?”

“I’m not sure, Jim, I’m not sure… I hope so…”

Jim stumbled along, numb. Thoughts raced through his young mind, and his eyes watered. At the first sniffle the man hesitated, stooped and lifted the boy up into the crook of his arm, the schoolbooks placed under the other. Jim buried his face in the man’s jacket, letting the warm smell of dust and coals numb his thoughts. Ahead the edges of the hamlet loomed, and beyond the Benbow Inn sat atop its hill against the sorrowful, overcast sky.