Not everyone considers their classrooms at night. When the bell rings, the final backpacks clear away, and the teachers wearily lock their doors and pull cars, headlights sweeping, from the lot, a school becomes a quiet, lonesome place. Dull, mute corridors contrast with the echoes of daytime shouts and chatter. Sinks in darkened bathrooms drip quietly, and solitary bits of trash drift listlessly over lunch tables in the dying evening breeze. The life of a school goes out with the sun.
But in the darkened classroom with the number 268, there was a little sign of life. A small reminder of the animated day. A tiny bird, a finch, was hopping methodically across her cage.
Room 268 was a science classroom, and the teacher who occupied it kept finches. She…
