“I just did what I should have done weeks ago,” I said.

“The protective order stays in effect for three full years,” Marcus said, turning toward the porch door.

“Call my office if anything comes up.”

“Thank you for everything, Marcus,” I said.

I stood on the porch and watched his dark sedan pull away down Maple Street into the bright afternoon quiet.

At four o’clock, the wooden bleachers in the Oak Ridge High School gym were half full of parents, students, and local teachers.

The familiar smell of floor wax, leather volleyballs, and rubber-soled shoes filled the warm, high-ceilinged room.