Chapter 1: Stray Cats and Shadows

There are two stray cats that hang around the bottom of our apartment complex. Every time, my daughter only feeds one of them, totally ignoring the other.

On those sticky summer afternoons, I’d spot both—a scrappy tabby and a black-and-white shorthair—pacing by the dumpsters, tails flicking, like they were waiting for a miracle. My daughter always brought her little Tupperware of kibble, but she only called out to the tabby. Sometimes neighbors paused with their leashed dogs, watching with mild curiosity, but nobody stepped in.

I even noticed that if there was food in the other cat’s bowl, my daughter would quietly dump it into the trash.

She’d sneak glances over her shoulder, lips pressed tight, tipping the bowl into a bag headed for the big blue recycling bin by the mailboxes. I tried to catch her eye—maybe this was some weird experiment—but she avoided my gaze every time.

I finally asked her why she did this. Without missing a beat, she said, "That cat’s a boy. No boy is any good. He deserves to starve."

She was just so matter-of-fact it made my skin crawl, like she was reciting the times tables. I felt a wave of confusion—was this something she’d picked up at school? From a cartoon? The streetlamp above us buzzed as I knelt down, searching her face for a clue.

Stunned, I tried to reason with her. "So, what about me? I’m a boy. Am I no good?"

My daughter quickly shook her head. "No, Dad, you’re the best. But besides you, boys are just bad."

Her little hand squeezed mine, her nose wrinkled in that stubborn way of hers. For a second, I remembered how fiercely kids could draw lines—how simple the world seemed to them, all good or all bad, no gray in between.

I told my wife about it. She just laughed, brushing it off: "Kids this age just like to hang out with their own gender. It’s normal for her to be a little against boys."

We were at the kitchen table—she stirred her coffee with a plastic spoon, talking like this was just another phase, like dinosaurs or space or princesses. Now, apparently, a little anti-boy streak.

She even said it was a good thing our daughter didn’t like boys. "The world’s a dangerous place—you never really know about people. Better she’s careful around men she doesn’t know."

She looked at me over her mug, half-joking, half-serious. "Better safe than sorry, right?" I nodded, even though something about it felt off.

Her words made sense, so I let it go.

The conversation fizzled out, the TV in the next room filling the silence with canned laughter. I tried to let it go, telling myself this was just another weird childhood quirk that would fade.

As for the male cat, after getting pushed around again and again, he finally ran off. The female didn’t last either—chased away by an ugly, too-friendly calico.

I’d catch glimpses of the calico lounging on car hoods, king of the lot. The tabby was gone, then the black-and-white cat vanished too. I wondered if my daughter noticed, but she never mentioned them again.

A few days later, my daughter suddenly told us someone had "touched" her. We asked her what happened, our hearts pounding.

She came into the living room, clutching her backpack, face pinched and voice barely above a whisper. The urgency in her words snapped us to attention—my wife dropped her phone, and I nearly knocked over my coffee mug.

"This afternoon, when I was about to get off the school bus, the driver stopped me. He said unless I let him touch my butt, he wouldn’t let me off. I was really scared, so..."

My heart hammered in my chest. My wife went pale, her hands trembling as she reached for our daughter’s shoulder, trying to comfort her without crowding her.

She also said there were four other girls on the bus at the time. They were all touched by the driver, and they could back her up.

She looked at the floor as she spoke, voice flat and distant. The four girls—friends from her grade—were well known to us, always huddled together at pick-up.

Realizing how serious this was, I immediately contacted the other four girls and their parents. After confirming my daughter wasn’t making it up, we took her to the local police station to report it.

The car ride over felt endless. My daughter sat between us, chewing her nails. In the police station, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the battered vending machine humming in the corner, and the faint smell of burnt coffee made the whole thing feel strangely unreal.

Since all the victims were children, the police took the case seriously. Within an hour, the school bus driver, Mark Jennings, was arrested. He was a retired veteran, middle-aged and unmarried, with a high school diploma.

I remembered Mark as the guy who always waved from behind the wheel, work shirt sleeves rolled up, faded Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm. Under the harsh station lights, he looked small, bewildered.

When Mark was brought in, furious parents rushed at him, hitting and kicking. My wife stuffed two bottles of water into her Coach purse and swung it at his head, snapping the strap.

The air was thick with shouting, parents lunging, security trying to restore order. My wife’s purse lay broken on the floor, water bottles rolling under a bench. I caught her eye—she looked both furious and shaken.

But under repeated questioning, Mark desperately pleaded his innocence. He swore he’d never even touched a student, let alone molested anyone. He knelt before the officers, pounding his forehead on the floor until it bled. "My mother’s bedridden and seriously ill. Only I can take care of her. Please clear my name..."

His pleas echoed through the station, some parents averting their eyes, others muttering angrily. I watched his face for a sign of deceit but saw only panic and desperation.