There was to be an eclipse, though how whoever knew this knew this no one knew. Despite the unlikelihood that the sun would just up and disappear, their teacher seemed certain it was going to, and sure enough at ten they lined up at the door like they were going out for recess. They started up the hill, wearing the dark glasses that had come flattened in the mail, their hands on shoulders, hands on their shoulders. The hard cardboard frames hurt where they hooked inexactly around their ears. The janitors and nurses and cafeteria workers were coming to see the eclipse too, wearing the extra glasses the teacher had ordered for them. They came after, giddy from the difference in the day. When they reached the top of the hill, the teacher reminded them all, students and adults alike, not to take their glasses off and look at the sun or they’d go blind. They looked at the sun through their dark glasses but it was early yet. She told them it would be awhile before anything happened. So, at a loss, they looked towards the school. It felt strange, not being in it at that hour, as if there’d been a fire or a shooting, though this was before the shootings. Then there was the fact that the school was darker through the glasses. But though it looked abandoned, it wasn’t. The principal had stayed behind, as if to protect them from something that had gone away but was coming back.