In their youth, they were all fluidity, stretching and snapping. Bubble and chewing, they come from all walks of life. Most opt for traditional burial, tucked back into their wrappers and solemnly trashed. The daredevils leap to the sidewalk, where they might perform one last heroic stretch, clinging to shoe-rubber: a feat for the ages.

Some cannot bear to depart, however, fearing both fame and ignominy. They cling to the undersides of desks and chairs, hunkered down and growing ever more inflexible, muttering in bitter nostalgia until they fall inevitably silent, waiting for their false immortality to fail at last.

Someone Will Have to Write a Letter to the Parents

"Well, that's everyone," said Mrs. Evelyn. She waved as the last yellow bus pulled away. "Is it safe for us to stay here?"

"Oh, yes," said June. "That line about the gas leak is hooey. Come to the gym. I'll show you."

Mrs. Evelyn gasped when the saw the hole, bricks tumbled in a rough pile before it. "If it wasn't an explosion, then what...?"

"Look closer." June pointed.

Pressed into the bricks like they were soft clay, identical to the hundreds hanging in the art room, was the imprint of a child's hand.

"Not an accident," said June. "Pushed."