Mildred Pinkerton, the seventh grade teacher at St. Polycarp, began the morning of Monday, October 13^th doing the same things she had done for the last twenty-eight years of her life.

She entered the faculty room, feeling rather prickly. This irritated feeling continued as she read the morning messages typed neatly by her principal, Father Felix.

Bonnie Crossover had called in sick again. That meant that the fifth grade would have to be spilt up, herding the children into other classrooms, with busy work that they never did, but that hardly mattered since it was never collected. Everyone knew that Miss Crossover was always sick on Mondays because she spent her entire weekend on one shopping binge after another, and by the time Sunday night rolled around she was plum exhausted.

The rain lashing against the window meant that there would be no recess for the children. But Miss Pinkerton wouldn’t be having a lunch break anyway, since Father Felix had called an Educational Evaluation meeting. Father Felix had asked Miss Pinkerton to chair the committee (well, really when all was said and done, he had demanded). Because of her years of experience, he had said, and her great leadership ability she would be able to obtain the state certification for St. Polycarp. This accreditation would lend to the school’s creditability and also make it eligible for all sorts of grants.

It was a good thing Father Felix had chosen Miss Pinkerton because, while reading through the committee reports last night, tucked into her warm, cozy bed, Miss Pinkerton had discovered a rather disturbing inconsistency.

She continued to read the morning messages – no gym today. The gym teacher was out again with a strained muscle. He was training for an iron man competition and was proving to be utterly useless.

And then there were a series of reminders – update bulletin boards, progress reports due by Friday, no beverages at teacher’s desk, no sitting at teacher’s desk, no cell phones during class hours, no socializing in the halls.

Miss Pinkerton knew all the rules and she was quite fastidious about obeying them. The younger teachers did as they pleased.

She went over to the water cooler and filled the coffee pot, and then after pouring the water into the coffee maker, carefully spooned out eight teaspoons of hazelnut coffee. That was all she was making – she didn’t care. Only five teachers had actually chipped in for the beans and the filters, the others helped themselves to a generous cup and swore that they would throw in fifty cents when they had the change. They never did.

Miss Pinkerton grabbed her coffee mug, opened the small refrigerator and poured a little milk at the bottom of her cup. While the coffee brewed, she went to the ladies room.

The cubicle was chilly, and as she sat on the ice cold toilet bowl, studying the chipped tiles and wondering if the dirt in the corner were mouse turds or something worse, she told herself - two more years, two more years and then she’d be able to retire, move to the small sleepy town in Maine, and live with her younger sister, be an grand aunt to her nephew’s babies.

She washed her hands with frigid water and headed back to the faculty room. She was half way down the corridor when she noticed that the door to the teachers’ lounge was wide open – even though she had shut it tightly. Another teacher must have come in. She hoped it wasn’t Julia Hopwood, the second grade teacher. Mrs. Hopwood behaved in a most inappropriate manner, she was past forty and still wearing brightly colored mini skirts, her bulletin boards were always one season behind and her classroom was noisy and disorganized.

And she was always complaining.

But Miss Pinkerton soon discovered that it wasn’t Mrs. Hopwood who had left the door open, it wasn’t anyone, at least anyone whom she could see.

Except – except Miss Pinkerton could tell that her coffee mug had been moved.

Now some other teacher might not have noticed if her cup had been moved a millimeter to the right or left but Miss Pinkerton was a very precise woman and she knew exactly where she had left the mug, in her usual place, at the head of the long, narrow table. And now it was several spots down.

It was rather concerning and a wee bit ominous.

Nevertheless, she could hardly face the angry, rambunctious mob that was her seventh grade class without her breakfast so she reached inside her Lillian Vernon tote and removed her seven grain bread which had been smoothed with natural peanut butter. And she poured herself a large helping of coffee. (There was no need to stir it, the milk on the bottom mixed instantly.)

Except the coffee had a peculiar aftertaste, rather metallic. At first Miss Pinkerton suspected that the milk had gone sour, so she actually opened the refrigerator and took a whiff. But no, it seemed quite all right and the expiration date was several days away.

She wouldn’t even have finished the coffee but she had to wash down her multi vitamin and her large calcium capsule and without enough liquid they would be ineffective.

She took out the folder labeled Educational Evaluation, and flipped through the pages. She was on the financial section when her vision began to blur. Miss Pinkerton’s vision had never blurred, not in her entire life, so she was quite frightened.

She was thinking about going for help, but she knew she’d never make it down the stairs to the main office. The phone, she thought, as she reached her hand out. But then her stomach started to cramp, almost as though there were a furry animal trapped inside, punching her, in order to break free.

She rose slowly but slumped down again. Her elbow knocked her coffee cup clear across the room, where it smacked on the concrete floor and shattered into a dozen pieces. In her desperation, she clutched the Educational Evaluation papers in her hand and then collapsed to the floor in the most graceful manner.

Her last thoughts as she sank into oblivion was of her dear sister and the little cottage in Maine.