*SLAM.*
Her tortoiseshell hair clip snapped under the impact, forty-eight pieces of plastic popping across the linoleum:
*click-clatter-roll.*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around Ms.
Harrow’s wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent classroom:
*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around her ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth:
*SNAP-CLINK.*
The twenty-two third-graders sat with their eyes wide, completely silent.
Ben Reed stepped to the front of the room, holding eight-year-old Clara in his arms.
He reached into his uniform pocket, pulled out the red sticky note Ms.
Harrow had forced Clara to read yesterday—the note bearing the words: *I am sorry I gave the class information I could not prove.*
*SLIP.*
Ben laid the sticky note flat across the nape of Ms.
