Chapter 3: Outsiders and Expectations

I told Savannah to stay put, switched on the flashlight, and opened the door to the main room.

The hallway stretched out in front of me, shadows pooling in the corners. My footsteps echoed on the old wooden floor, each one louder than the last. I swung the flashlight in a slow arc, heart hammering against my ribs.

Just then, I caught a blurry figure not far off. I swung the light on them, and they jerked back, clearly startled.

The beam caught a flash of movement—someone shrinking away, hands up like they’d been caught somewhere they shouldn’t be. The outline was familiar, the way the shoulders hunched with embarrassment.

Now I could see who it was.

"Mr. Carter?"

His face came into focus, eyes wide with concern. He looked almost sheepish, like a kid caught sneaking cookies after bedtime.

"Yeah, it’s me. The lead teacher’s here."

His voice was low, apologetic. I let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding through me. My shoulders relaxed a little, just enough to notice.

The school had arranged for a lead teacher, but when we came in from the county, he’d had something come up and told us to go ahead.

I remembered the emails, the promises that someone would look out for us. Seeing Mr. Carter in person, late at night, made me realize just how seriously these folks took our safety.

Savannah, hearing voices, threw on her hoodie and came out. Mr. Carter had brought a middle-aged man, loaded with bags, and a guy in his twenties.

They stood awkward in the doorway, arms full of supplies, faces flushed from the cold. Savannah managed a tired smile, her hair a wild mess.

Both Savannah and I recognized the middle-aged man—Mr. White, who’d greeted us back in the county.

Mr. White’s face lit up when he saw us, eyes crinkling at the corners. He had that look—someone who’d spent years in classrooms, patient and kind, but with a backbone of steel.

"Hall, Rivers, this is Justin Lee."

Justin stepped forward, shifting his duffel from one shoulder to the other. He looked nervous, but there was a spark of excitement in his eyes—like he was ready to start something big, even if he didn’t know what it was yet.

There was supposed to be a Justin Lee coming, but he’d started from a different place, so we hadn’t traveled together.

We’d seen his name in the orientation emails—a last-minute addition to our team. He looked younger than I expected, almost boyish, but determined.

It was chilly at night in the hills. Mr. Carter dropped them off, said a few polite words, then left.

His truck rumbled away into the dark, headlights bouncing over the ruts. The night air pressed in, sharp and clean, and for a minute, we all just stood there, not sure what to do next.

I walked Mr. Carter out, flashlight bobbing along:

"Sorry to trouble you so late, Mr. Carter, bringing Mr. White and Justin over."

He waved his hand, looking a little awkward:

"No trouble at all."

He gave me a tired smile, the kind that said he’d been up half the night already. I watched him walk away, his silhouette swallowed by the red glow of his taillights.

Standing at the door, I watched him disappear. He wasn’t very tall, maybe 5'7", and the window was low. The face we’d seen at the window wasn’t his—that much I knew.

Mr. White and Justin had brought a ton of stuff. Justin especially—he had a duffel full of shelf-stable milk, hair ties, and toys.

He plopped the bag down with a thud, grinning like a kid. The stuff spilled out—cartons of milk, bright hair ties, stuffed animals. Honestly, it looked like Christmas morning in the middle of July.

Justin grinned, almost proud:

"When we start class, let’s give each kid a carton of milk. Kids need milk to grow. The hair ties and toys are gifts for them."

He sounded eager, like he’d spent hours planning this haul. I could tell he wanted to make a splash, to be the guy who made the kids smile.

I checked the time—it was ten o’clock. Usually, I’d still be scrolling my phone at this hour, but up here, the signal was bad and folks turned in early. By their standards, this was late.

The house was quiet except for the old wall clock ticking away. I felt a little guilty, knowing we were keeping everyone up past their usual bedtime. In the city, ten o’clock is nothing—but here, it felt like the dead of night.

I pulled Savannah aside to get ready for bed. Before heading in, I turned and said to Justin:

"Justin, it’s great you brought these. But helping them see the world outside is the real answer. We’re only here for a little while. Giving them stuff is nice, but what about after we’re gone?"

I tried to keep it gentle—I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Our advisor always said: real change takes more than gifts. I hoped he’d get it. We weren’t here to be Santa Claus, but to open doors that might stay open long after we left.

Maybe my words landed, because Justin didn’t hand out the gifts during class.

He nodded, a little embarrassed, and tucked the toys away. I watched him watch the kids—torn between wanting to help and wanting to do the right thing.

After class, a group of students surrounded us. The boy in front was filthy, hand outstretched, palm up:

"Miss, didn’t you bring us presents?"

His voice was hopeful, eyes bright. The other kids crowded close, faces a mix of curiosity and longing. My heart twisted. I wished I had the right words.

"No."

I kept my voice steady, meeting his gaze. The group let out a collective sigh, disappointment settling heavy in the air.

The boy froze, then his face twisted with anger:

"Why not? The last teachers always did! Why don’t you?"

His words were sharp, hurt flickering underneath. Savannah shifted, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Savannah’s face flushed. Justin couldn’t say a word. I calmly packed up my bag:

"Because we’re broke teachers."

I tried to make it a joke, half-smiling, hoping to break the tension. The kids stared, caught between disbelief and confusion.

The kids went dead quiet, stunned.

For a beat, nobody moved. I could see them trying to figure out if I was serious or just messing with them.

"Liar! You’re from the city! My dad says the buildings there are so tall they’re scary! How could you have no money!"

His voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. The other kids nodded, wide-eyed. That’s when I realized how deep the gap was between our worlds.

Katie burst through the crowd, hands on her hips, scolding the kids. When a couple of them talked back, she went straight for them—fists and feet flying—then walked us back home like it was her job.

She moved with surprising fire, her small frame packing a punch. The other kids scattered, muttering. Katie marched us home, chin high—a little general leading her troops.

At the door, she said:

"I know you volunteer teachers got a bunch of rules. Next time, just call me. You gotta be shameless with them."

She grinned, a spark of mischief in her eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh—the tension melted right out of me. Before I could thank her, she was already gone.

I called after her:

"Katie, what’s your full name?"

She paused, glancing back. There was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer.

She hesitated:

"Katie Walker."

She said it quietly, almost shyly, like the name itself was something she didn’t want to give away.

"Katie, did you like the granola bar?"

I tried to sound casual, but I really wanted to know if that little gesture had meant anything.

Katie gave me a grateful smile:

"Thank you, Miss Hall. It was real good."

Her eyes shone, and for a second, she looked like any other kid—happy and carefree. I felt a warmth in my chest, a reminder of why I’d come here in the first place.