I ran in through the front door, past the few startled evening customers, and pushed through into the kitchen, and there I stopped, because the scene was not at all what I had braced for.

The kitchen was silent.

Not chaotic, not violent, but silent, and still.

Several employees, cooks and servers in aprons, stood around the dishwashing area, not fighting anyone, just standing, watching, with expressions I could not read.

And in the middle of the room stood my son.

Caleb.

Not being restrained, not bleeding, not in the grip of anyone.

Just standing there, small and stricken, with his backpack open on the floor at his feet, and its contents spilled out across the tiles and up onto the stainless-steel prep table beside him.