He'd been surprised when it did, though he'd been anticipating its song for half the long morning. It sounded no different than any of the other dozen bells that had been ringing without purpose since he had entered the school building that morning. It had been left to his more tenured classmates to note the difference he did not hear, close their arithmetic books as one, and, dragging brown paper bags from their desks, line up at the door to the hallway. He closed his own book, grabbed his bag from under the chair and took his place in line behind Sally Benrum, who stuck her tongue out at him. You went nowhere in this school unless you went in a line, it seemed, and he stood as still as he was able, chewing on his lip as Uncle Tulaine always chided him for, until the teacher was satisfied that they were all each behind the other, that there was silence, more or less, and condescended to lead them to the cafeteria. Now, red-and-white milk carton before him on the table, he slowly uncurled the top of his lunch bag.
