Trombley High School was one of the most high-achieving high schools in the area. Dominated by a demographic of upper middle class white students, these teenagers were far more driven than the stereotypical teenager. Unbeknownst to many of the students at the school, my strong Guatemalan roots didn't hinder me in my ability to decipher what the students were saying. I am a very reserved man, and I hardly ever interacted with any of the students at Trombley High School. Most of the communicating I did in my time at the school was between the other, almost all Hispanic, janitors. And of course, it was all Spanish, giving the students another reason to believe I was completely clueless to anything that happened. I usually worked the day shift, and I was primarily stationed in the dining hall; picking up all the wrappers and bits and pieces of food the students left behind for me, mopping down the floors after everyone was gone, and helping where I was needed. For my first few years at Trombley High School, I did not think much of it. I was just a janitor; doing my fair share of work to get by. But as time passed, I noticed change within the doors of Trombley High, and I will never forget what came at the end of the road.

It began in October. That October had been particularly cold for the area, and it looked like Winter was coming early that year. The time was 8:15. The students had been in class for half an hour, and the morning seemed to be going normal. As I was unfolding the tables in the dining hall, I got a call on my Walkie. "Hello?" I asked in Spanish. "Luis?" the voice rang. It was Camila, the head janitor. "I need you in Room 3036, white bitch spilled coffee everywhere." I briefly chuckled. I was always fond of Camila's sense of humor. She was never concerned if she offended anyone, especially the white bitches. "On my way," I replied. I left the dining hall and made my way to the upper wing of the school. After I climbed the stairs that took me to the upper wing I stopped by the janitors storage room and picked up a mop along with the bucket and wringer. I made my way down the hall. The even rooms were on the right as my eyes tried to pick out my destination. 3030, 3032, 3034, and there I was: Room 3036. The class belonged to Mrs. Erin Dalston. It was Dalston's first year at the school after being transferred from one of the nearby inner city schools to Trombley. An economics teacher, she was under an immense amount of pressure and she was surrounded by nothing but high expectations. She was replacing a longtime veteran of the school that recently retired. Her predecessor taught economics for more than three decades at Trombley, and was highly acclaimed for all three of those decades. I knocked on the door, as it was locked due to safety precautions. After a few seconds, a tall, lean man opened up the door for me. I nodded in his direction as a brief sign of gratuity. It didn't take too long to eye the accident,