Ernesto Reyes was mopping the second-grade hallway when he first saw the drowning boy.
It was past nine on a Tuesday night in October, the kind of Maine evening where fog pressed against the windows like something trying to get in. Millbrook Elementary sat empty except for him and the hum of the new smart boards that had been installed three weeks back—donation from some tech company whose name he could never quite pronounce. NeuroLink Educational Systems. The principal, Mrs. Garrett, had been beside herself with joy. "Bringing Millbrook into the twenty-first century," she'd said at the assembly, while Ernesto stood in the back with his supply cart, invisible as always.
The drowning boy appeared on the smart board in Room 2-B, Ms. Chen's classroom.
Ernesto had just wrung out his mop when he noticed the glow. Not the usual standby blue that the boards emitted at night, but something flickering, unstable. Gray-green like pond water. He pushed his cart closer, squinting through the doorway.
On the seventy-inch screen, a child—maybe six, seven years old—thrashed in dark water. No sound, but Ernesto could see the boy's mouth opening and closing, could see the terror in his pixelated eyes. The image was grainy, like old home video, but something about it made Ernesto's stomach clench. He'd seen drowning before. Real drowning. This looked real.
He fumbled for the lights, his wet hands slipping on the switch. The fluorescents buzzed to life, and the screen went blue again. Standby mode. As if nothing had happened.
Ernesto stood there, mop handle gripped tight, remembering another dark water, another time. The Rio Grande at night, his daughter Rosa barely three years old, clinging to his neck as they crossed. That had been fifteen years ago, but his body remembered the weight of her, the current pulling at his legs, the moment he'd stumbled and gone under and thought *This is how we die, right at the edge of America.*
But they hadn't died. Rosa was at UMaine now, studying to be a doctor. His English was still broken, but hers was perfect. Everything he'd done, every floor he'd mopped, every toilet he'd cleaned, had been for that.
He approached the smart board slowly, the way you'd approach a strange dog. The thing hummed softly, LEDs blinking along its edge. There was no keyboard, no obvious controls except for a power button he wasn't supposed to touch. The teachers controlled everything through their tablets.
The screen flickered again.
This time it was a car accident. The image lasted maybe three seconds—a sedan wrapped around a telephone pole, smoke rising, a child's bicycle crushed underneath—before cutting back to blue.
Ernesto crossed himself, a habit from childhood his mother would have been proud to see survived. He'd been in Millbrook eight years now, knew every corner of this building, every creaky floorboard and leaky pipe. The building talked to him in ways it didn't talk to others, because he was the one who listened. And right now, it was telling him something was wrong.
The next morning came gray and cold, kids streaming off buses in their puffy jackets and knit hats. Ernesto was fixing a paper towel dispenser in the boys' bathroom when he heard the scream.
It came from Room 2-B. Ms. Chen's room.
By the time he got there—moving faster than his back appreciated—a crowd had formed in the doorway. Kids pressed against each other, some crying, others with that shocked silence children got when the adult world cracked open in front of them. Ms. Chen was herding them out, her face pale.
"It's okay, it's just a malfunction," she kept saying, but her voice shook. "Everyone to the library. Walking feet. That's it."
Ernesto waited until the last child had left, then approached her. Sarah Chen was one of the good ones—actually looked at him when she talked, said "please" and "thank you" like she meant it. She was young, maybe twenty-eight, still believed teaching could save the world. Millbrook hadn't beaten that out of her yet.
"Miss Chen? You okay?"
She turned to him, and he saw she'd been crying. "Ernesto. Did you—did you see it?"
He looked at the smart board. It showed a math lesson, cartoon frogs jumping on lily pads. Normal.
"What happen?" His English always got worse when he was nervous.
"It was..." She paused, looked at the empty doorway, then back at him. Lowered her voice. "You won't think I'm crazy?"
"No, Miss. No crazy."
She took a shaky breath. "We were doing morning circle. I turned on the board to show the weather forecast, and instead there was... God, I don't even know how to describe it. A car accident. But not like a news report. Like... like someone's nightmare. There was a child's voice screaming for their parents, and the image kept jumping around, the way dreams do. The kids completely freaked out."
Ernesto felt the hair on his neck rise. "Last night," he said slowly, "I see something too. A boy in water. Drowning."
Her eyes widened. "You saw it? On the smart board?"
He nodded.
"We have to tell Mrs. Garrett."
But Ernesto knew how that would go. The principal would smile that tight smile she used when she thought someone was wasting her time. She'd thank them for their concern and do nothing. Or worse, she'd blame it on user error, maybe even suggest Ernesto had been touching equipment he shouldn't.
"Wait," he said. "First we watch. We learn more."
Sarah looked uncertain, but she nodded. "Okay. But if it happens again—"
"We tell. Promise."
It happened again that afternoon.
Ernesto was cleaning the cafeteria when he heard the commotion from the third-grade wing. By the time he arrived, Mrs. Patterson was evacuating her entire class, her face white as paper. On the smart board in her room: fire. A house burning, seen from a child's perspective, low to the ground. Smoke rolling across the screen so realistically that Ernesto found himself holding his breath.
This time, he recognized one of the crying children being led away. Tommy Brennan, a small boy with sandy hair who always said "Hi, Mr. Ernesto!" in the hallways. Tommy who lived with his grandmother now, after the accident that killed his parents last spring.
A pattern. There was a pattern here.
That night, Ernesto stayed late again. This time on purpose. He went room to room, checking each smart board, waiting. At 9:47, Room 3-A lit up with an image of a funeral. Small coffin. Church full of strangers. A child's view from a pew, feet not touching the ground.
At 10:15, the kindergarten room showed a hospital corridor, endless and white, seen from the height of someone very small.
At 10:43, the art room displayed a man's shadow falling across a doorway, growing larger.
Each image lasted only seconds, but Ernesto cataloged them all in the notebook he used for supply orders. Drowning. Car accident. Fire. Funeral. Hospital. Shadow. He knew trauma when he saw it—carried enough of his own. These weren't random horror shows. These were memories. Children's memories, somehow pulled out and displayed like slides in the world's worst PowerPoint.
The next day, he found Sarah Chen in her empty classroom during lunch, door closed, crying quietly at her desk.
"Miss Chen?"
She looked up, tried to smile. Failed. "Three more parents called to pull their kids today. They think we're showing them inappropriate content on purpose. Mrs. Garrett had a parent threaten to sue. And the worst part?" She laughed bitterly. "NeuroLink keeps saying it's impossible. That their boards can't display anything that isn't directly input through the control tablets."
Ernesto set down his supply cart, pulled up one of the tiny student chairs. It creaked under his weight. "Miss Chen, I need ask you something. The children who get most upset—they have bad things happen to them?"
She frowned, considering. "Actually... yes. Tommy Brennan completely melted down yesterday, and his parents... And Lucy Martinez, her father's in prison. And that new boy, Aidan, his family's house burned down last year, which is why they moved here." Her eyes widened. "Oh my God. The images are connected to them specifically?"
"I think so, yes."
"But how? That's not—that's impossible."
Ernesto had learned that in America, people said "impossible" about things that happened all the time. It was impossible for refugees to walk two thousand miles. Impossible to survive on minimum wage. Impossible to learn a new language at forty. Yet here he was.
"The company," he said. "NeuroLink. What you know about them?"
Sarah pulled out her phone, started searching. "They're based in Boston. Specialize in 'educational technology solutions.' They've donated smart boards to a dozen rural schools in New England. Their CEO is some tech genius who used to work for..." She paused, kept reading. "That's weird."
"What?"
"He used to work for a company that developed emotion-recognition software. For market research. Reading micro-expressions to see how people really feel about products." She looked up at him. "Ernesto, what if the boards can read more than just faces?"
Before he could respond, the classroom door opened. Dr. Marcus Webb walked in, followed by Mrs. Garrett.
Ernesto had met Webb once before, during the installation. Smooth talker in an expensive suit, the kind of man who looked through service people like they were furniture. He wasn't looking through Ernesto now, though. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Ms. Chen," Mrs. Garrett said, her voice strained. "Dr. Webb is here to address our concerns about the smart boards. I thought you might want to sit in."
"Actually," Webb said, his smile not reaching his eyes, "I'd like to speak with your maintenance staff as well. I understand he's been very... attentive to our equipment."
The way he said "attentive" made Ernesto's skin crawl. It was the same tone the ICE agents had used when they'd raided the restaurant where he'd worked in Texas, before he'd moved to Maine. Predatory. Knowing.
"I just clean," Ernesto said carefully.
"Of course." Webb's smile widened. "But you've been working late recently. The boards have activity logs, you see. They record when someone's in proximity after hours."
Mrs. Garrett looked between them, confused. "I don't understand. Are you saying Ernesto has been tampering with the equipment?"
"Not at all. I'm simply trying to understand why our boards might be displaying what you've described as 'disturbing content.' User error is the most common cause of technical issues."
Sarah stood up. "It's not user error. Multiple teachers have seen it. The students are traumatized."
"Traumatized is a strong word, Ms. Chen. Children have vivid imaginations. Perhaps they're misinterpreting standard screen reflections or—"
"I know what I saw," Sarah said firmly.
Webb's friendly mask slipped for just a second. Underneath was something colder. "What you think you saw. Human memory is notoriously unreliable, especially under stress. Now, I've brought a technical team to run full diagnostics on all units. We'll need the building cleared this evening."
"That's not necessary," Mrs. Garrett said. "Ernesto always works late. He can let them in and—"
"No." Webb's tone was final. "For insurance and safety reasons, the building needs to be completely empty. Including maintenance staff."
Ernesto felt a chill that had nothing to do with the October air leaking through the old windows. They wanted him out. Why?
That afternoon, as Ernesto emptied trash cans and tried to look invisible—a skill that had saved him more than once—he noticed Webb's "technical team." Three men who moved like military, not like computer nerds. They weren't checking the boards so much as installing something on them. Small devices, no bigger than flash drives, inserted into ports he hadn't even known existed.
He texted Rosa from the supply closet. *Mija, if something happen to me, know I love you.*
She texted back immediately. *Dad what's wrong? Are you okay?*
*Yes. Just wanted say.*
*Dad you're scaring me.*
He put the phone away. He was scaring himself too.
At 3:30, Mrs. Garrett made an announcement over the PA system. The building would be closing early for maintenance. All staff were to leave by 4:00 PM.
Ernesto did leave. He badged out at 3:58, made sure the security camera by the door caught him going. Then he drove his beat-up Corolla around the block, parked behind the defunct video store, and walked back through the woods that bordered the playground. There was a basement window in the boiler room that had been painted shut in 1987. He'd unpainted it in 2018 when he'd needed to sneak out for Rosa's high school graduation without losing attendance points.
The basement was dark, familiar. He knew every pipe, every wire, every shadow. He waited there as footsteps moved above him. Webb's team, doing whatever they'd come to do.
At 7:00 PM, he heard Webb's voice through the heating vent that connected to Mrs. Garrett's office.
"The emotion-capture software is working perfectly. Better than our trials in Boston. Rural kids are less guarded, more raw. The trauma readings we're getting are unprecedented."
Another voice, one of the tech team: "The parents are getting suspicious."
"Let them. We'll be done with the data collection in another week. These boards will suffer an unfortunate 'malfunction' requiring full replacement. No evidence. And we'll have what we need for the Department of Defense contract."
"Using kids' nightmares for military applications seems—"
"Effective. Imagine interrogation software that can literally pull fears from someone's mind and project them. The applications are endless. These children's trauma is unfortunate, but they're serving their country."
Ernesto felt sick. He thought of Tommy Brennan's small face, Lucy Martinez's tears, all the children carrying weights too heavy for their tiny shoulders. Now someone was mining their pain like data, turning their nightmares into weapons.
He climbed the stairs carefully, avoiding the third step that creaked, the ninth that groaned. The hallway was dark except for the exit signs and the soft glow from the computer lab, where Webb's team had set up their equipment.
Ernesto made his way to the utility room where the building's main electrical panel lived. He knew every breaker, every circuit. The smart boards were on their own dedicated line—the installation team had insisted on it.
He could kill the power to just the boards. Make it look like an electrical fault. But that wouldn't stop them from coming back, from trying again at another school, with other children.
No. He needed proof.
His phone was old, the camera grainy, but it would have to do. He crept toward the computer lab, staying low, breathing through his mouth the way he'd learned during those terrible nights crossing through Arizona, when any sound could bring Border Patrol.
Through the door's window, he could see multiple screens showing readouts he didn't understand—brain waves, maybe, or heart rates. Children's photos were pinned to a bulletin board. Tommy. Lucy. Aidan. A dozen others, all tagged with labels: "SEVERE TRAUMA," "RECENT LOSS," "ONGOING ABUSE SUSPECTED."
They were targeting the most vulnerable kids specifically.
He raised his phone, started recording. The image was shaky, but you could make out the screens, the photos, Webb pointing at a graph showing something labeled "FEAR RESPONSE INTENSITY."
Then the lights went on.
"Mr. Reyes."
Webb stood in the hallway behind him, holding an iPad that must have shown him the security feed Ernesto had forgotten about—the new camera they'd installed last month in this very hallway.
"Breaking and entering is a serious crime," Webb continued, walking closer. "For someone with your... immigration status... it could mean deportation."
Ernesto's hand tightened on his phone. "The children. You're hurting them."
"We're not hurting anyone. We're simply collecting data that's already there. These children's trauma exists whether we measure it or not."
"You're using them."
Webb shrugged. "The world uses everyone, Mr. Reyes. You should know that better than most. How many floors have you mopped for less than a living wage? How many toilets have you cleaned while people pretended you don't exist? At least our research has purpose. Value."
"Their pain is not your value to take."
Webb's eyes narrowed. "Give me the phone."
"No."
"I'm not asking."
One of the tech team appeared in the computer lab doorway—the one built like a bouncer, not a programmer. He started toward Ernesto.
Ernesto ran.
Not toward the exit—they'd expect that. Instead, he ran deeper into the building, toward the gymnasium. His keys jangled as he moved, a sound like chains. Behind him, footsteps and shouting.
The gym was vast and dark, moonlight filtering through high windows. Ernesto knew this space blind—had cleaned it after countless basketball games, school plays, PTA meetings. He knew the storage closet with the broken lock, the gap behind the bleachers where kids hid contraband, the access ladder to the roof that everyone had forgotten existed.
But he wasn't twenty anymore. His knees screamed as he climbed, his lower back seizing with each rung. The metal was cold and slick with condensation. Below, the doors burst open. Flashlight beams swept the space.
"Check the exits!" Webb's voice echoed. "He can't have gone far."
Ernesto reached the roof access panel, pushed it open with his shoulder. Cold October air hit him like a slap. The roof was flat, covered in gravel and pigeon droppings. The fog had cleared, and he could see the lights of Millbrook spread below—the 24-hour gas station, the shuttered mill, the church steeple lit up white.
His phone buzzed. Rosa calling. He declined it, then opened his email and started uploading the video. The file was large, the connection slow. 57% uploaded.
The roof access door slammed open behind him.
"Step away from the edge, Mr. Reyes."
Ernesto wasn't near the edge, but he understood the implication. An immigrant janitor, despondent, jumps from school roof. Who would question it?
68% uploaded.
"You know," Webb said, stepping onto the roof, "we could make this easy. Delete the video, sign an NDA, take a generous severance. Enough to pay for your daughter's medical school."
That stopped Ernesto cold. They knew about Rosa. Of course they did.
"She's a bright girl," Webb continued. "But medical school is expensive. And background checks for residency programs are so thorough these days. Any family complications could be... problematic."
79% uploaded.
"You're threatening my daughter?"
"I'm offering you an opportunity. Think about it—what will happen to her if you're deported? If you're imprisoned? If you're—" He paused meaningfully. "Unable to support her?"
88% uploaded.
Ernesto thought about Rosa at three years old, clinging to his neck in the Rio Grande. Rosa at ten, translating at parent-teacher conferences because his English was still so bad. Rosa at eighteen, crying with joy over her acceptance to UMaine. Everything he'd done, every sacrifice, had been for her.
95% uploaded.
But then he thought about Tommy Brennan, parentless at seven. Lucy Martinez, visiting her father through reinforced glass. All those children carrying adult-sized pain in child-sized hearts. Someone had to stand for them. Someone had to say no, this is wrong, even if the cost was everything.
Upload complete.
"Already sent," Ernesto said, holding up his phone. "To newspaper. To school board. To FBI."
Webb's face went very still. "You have no idea what you've done."
"I know exactly."
What happened next happened fast. Webb lunged for the phone. Ernesto stumbled backward, his foot catching on a ventilation pipe. He fell hard, gravel biting into his palms. Webb grabbed his wrist, trying to wrestle the phone away. They rolled across the rough surface, Ernesto's maintenance keys cutting into his hip.
Then Sarah Chen's voice cut through the night: "Let him go!"
She stood in the roof access doorway, holding her own phone up. "I'm livestreaming this. Three thousand viewers and climbing. Hi, everyone. This is Dr. Marcus Webb of NeuroLink Educational Systems, assaulting a school employee who discovered they've been using our children's trauma for military research."
Webb released Ernesto's wrist, stood slowly. His suit was torn, his composure finally cracked. "You don't understand the implications—"
"I understand enough." Mrs. Garrett appeared beside Sarah, and Ernesto had never seen the principal look so fierce. "The police are on their way. I suggest you and your team leave before they arrive."
"This isn't over," Webb said. "Our lawyers—"
"Will be busy dealing with the lawsuits from every parent in this district," Mrs. Garrett said. "Get out of my school."
Webb left. They all heard his footsteps on the ladder, the slam of car doors, engines starting and fading into the distance.
Sarah helped Ernesto to his feet. His hands were bleeding, his back in agony, but he was alive. He was still here.
"How did you know?" he asked.
Sarah smiled. "I didn't leave either. Parked down the street and came back through the playground. Saw you go in through the basement—that painted window's not as secret as you think. When I heard the commotion, I called Mrs. Garrett."
The principal looked at him with something Ernesto had never seen in her eyes before: respect. "I owe you an apology, Ernesto. And a debt. You risked everything for our students."
He shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "Is my job."
"Cleaning is your job. This was heroism."
The police did come, took statements, collected the smart boards as evidence. The story made the news—first local, then national. NeuroLink's stock crashed. Webb was arrested on federal charges. The Department of Defense contract was killed.
But the part that mattered most to Ernesto happened two weeks later.
He was mopping the second-grade hallway—the old boards were gone, replaced with regular whiteboards—when Tommy Brennan ran up to him.
"Mr. Ernesto! Mr. Ernesto!"
The boy was bouncing on his toes, gap-toothed grin wide.
"What is it, mijo?"
"I slept all night without bad dreams! First time since..." The smile faltered for a second, then came back. "First time in a long time."
Ernesto knelt down, his knees protesting. "That's good. Very good."
"My grandma says you're a hero. Like in the movies."
"No, not like movies. Just a maintenance man."
Tommy threw his small arms around Ernesto's neck, the same way Rosa used to. "Best maintenance man ever."
After the boy ran off to class, Ernesto stood slowly, picked up his mop. The hallway needed cleaning. It always did. But now when he worked, people saw him. Really saw him. Teachers nodded with genuine warmth. Parents knew his name. Mrs. Garrett had given him a raise and made him head of maintenance, a title that came with health insurance and two weeks paid vacation.
Rosa called that night, as she did every night since the news broke.
"Dad, I'm so proud of you."
"Just doing my job, mija."
"No. You stood up. You fought back. You protected those kids."
He thought about Webb's words on the roof, about how the world uses everyone. Maybe that was true. But sometimes, if you were lucky and brave and had people who stood with you, you got to choose how you were used. You got to say: this is the line, and I will not let you cross it.
"Dad? You still there?"
"Yes, mija. Still here."
Still here. After everything—the river crossing, the years of invisibility, the night on the roof—he was still here. In this small Maine town, in this old school building, with these children who deserved to have their nightmares remain their own.
The fog pressed against the windows again, but it didn't feel like something trying to get in anymore. It felt like something keeping the darkness out. Ernesto finished his coffee, picked up his mop, and went back to work.
The building still talked to him, creaking and settling in familiar ways. But now it sounded different. Not like secrets.
Like home.