Lockers hang open with notebooks spilling out of them. Crumpled papers, everything from homework assignments to the doodles of a procrastinator litter the hallway floor. Here and there a backpack sits, one slumped against the wall, half open, with the remainder of somebody’s lunch spilling out. The lights hang suspended from the ceiling, some with broken suspension cables, so they hang awkwardly almost touching the ground. It’s dark, and if you listen, you’d swear you could still hear the whispering of several students in the middle of an exam. Glass is everywhere from when the windows exploded, finally giving in to the relentless pounding given by the elements. In the gym, one of the basketball hoops is on the floor from where the support structure rusted away, and the rest are to follow. The scoreboard leans precariously away from the wall because its support frame is loose. In the art classroom, chairs are knocked over. A stack of ungraded assignments has been knocked off of the desk, never to be picked up. The phones in the office are off their hooks. Things that were on the receptionist’s desk have been thrown all about, and the drawers are all turned over on the floor. In the cafeteria, the tables sit. The kitchen is open, though all food has been carried off by now. On the playground, the swings sway eerily, the chains squeaking as though they are under stress from supporting the weight of a child at play. The metal slide is rusting, and several of the bolts have given way. The sign out in front, showing off the school’s mascot, has burned out.