At the farthest edge of the campus, under a clear, cerulean sky, beside a cow pasture where a solitary Holstein lazily rubbed her bottom against the trunk of a persimmon tree, the Cubs were about to lose their third game in a row when a mad howl bellowed from the bottom of a dogpile in the middle of the field.

“OWWWWW! GET OFF! GET OFF! GET! OFF!”

The referee blew his whistle, stopping the clock, and motioned to Coach Deemer on the Cub sideline. Legs and arms untangled from the pile, and the boys from both teams stood up on either side of No. 57, who lay writhing on his back. Henry bent down to look inside the player’s facemask.

A dozen wooden armchair desks flanked three walls of the classroom, and a long slate chalkboard ran the length of the fourth. In front of the chalkboard was a double-pedestal oak desk whose top was bare, save for a tidy stack of notebook papers folded lengthwise. Behind the desk, at a window in the corner farthest from the door, stood a man with his back to the room. He was tall and lean with narrow shoulders and dark, straight hair. As the boys filed in, he remained motionless except for his right hand, which held a red marking pen that he used to slowly tick the time against the palm of his hand.

The bell rang just as Henry entered the room. He stopped briefly to consider the two remaining empty chairs then took the one farther away from the teacher’s desk, next to a pudgy, round-faced, black kid whose right leg bounced nervously up and down.

Mackie continued to stare out the window, keeping time as Henry put his backpack under his seat and pulled out his notebook.

“Palmer, you’re late.”