"NYPD's working it. Cross-referencing expelled students, aged-out foster kids, anyone with a documented grievance against schools in the district." Rodriguez shook his head. "It's a long list. These systems fail a lot of people. And some of them don’t forget it.”
The briefing continued. Patrol schedules. Coordination with the fire marshal. The protocol for responding to school fires, which now included immediate arson investigation.
I barely heard the rest.
I thought about P.S. 147. Maya’s school. About the fourth graders with their construction paper projects and their essays about dogs versus cats. I thought about Maya staying late to grade papers alone in an empty building.
The fear was sudden and specific. It felt like a cold fist in my chest that wouldn't loosen.
I had to tell her. To make sure she was paying attention. To make sure she was safe.
Saturday night felt different.
I showed up at Maya's with Thai food because I'd learned it was her favorite. Pad Thai for her. Drunken noodles for me. Spring rolls to share. Zoe was at a friend's house for a sleepover, so it was just the two of us.
The apartment was quieter without Zoe there. More charged.
Maya answered the door in a thin tank top and cotton shorts, her hair down, still damp from a shower. No makeup. No armor. The tank top was old, soft from a hundred washes, clinging to her in ways that made it hard to remember I was supposed to be her friend.
I kept my eyes on her face. Mostly.
"You didn't have to bring food," she said, stepping aside to let me in.
"I know. I wanted to."
We settled on the couch with our containers between us. It was one of those rare nights when Maya didn't have a mountain of grading waiting for her. Parent-teacher conferences had just ended, progress reports were submitted, and for once, she had nothing hanging over her head. She'd mentioned it earlier in the week, like she couldn't quite believe it.
I might actually relax this weekend. I forgot what that feels like.
Some terrible romantic comedy played on the TV, her choice. She laughed at the bad jokes. Threw popcorn at the screen when the lead made stupid decisions. Let herself relax in a way she didn't when Zoe was around, like she'd forgotten to keep her guard up.
I barely watched the movie. I watched her. The way she curled into the corner of the couch, feet tucked under her. The shadows under her eyes that never quite went away. The strap of her tank top kept slipping down her shoulder. She’d push it back up absently, without noticing. I noticed every time.
"You heard about the school fires?" During a lull in the movie, I said.
Maya's smile faded. She straightened, feet dropping to the floor, the easy relaxation of a few moments ago gone. "It's been on the news. The teachers have been talking about it."
"We're working on the investigation. FDNY's coordinating with the fire marshal." I kept my voice casual, but I watched her reaction. "They're targeting schools specifically. We think it's someone with a grudge against the system."
She nodded slowly. Processing.
"Just be careful, okay?" I held her gaze. "Don't stay too late by yourself. Make sure the building's locked up when you leave. If anything feels off, anything at all, you call me."
For a moment, I thought she might brush it off. Tell me she was fine, that she didn't need protection, didn't need some firefighter worrying about her.
Instead, she said, "I'll be careful."
Simple. No argument.
Something in my chest eased.
"Thank you," she added, quieter. She shifted closer, her knee almost touching mine. "For telling me. For worrying."
"I'm always going to worry about you." The words came out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too close to the line I'd promised not to cross.
Maya's eyes met mine. Something flickered there.
The movie played on. Neither of us watched it.
