The building remained closed, one of the many underutilized properties caught between political failures and redevelopment proposals.
A temporary fence surrounded the land.
The paint peeled off the window frames.
Weeds had sprouted through the cracked asphalt.
The place seemed smaller than I remembered and sadder than I had expected.
He stood for a long minute by the old perimeter, listening to ghostly noises in the wind: children shouting, lunch bells, shoes on the cement.
A voice behind him said, "Are you waiting for someone, son?"
Isaiah turned back.
An older man, wearing a maintenance jacket, was carrying a key ring and a paper bag with tools.
His beard was white, his shoulders still broad, his eyes piercing, like those of men who had spent years keeping buildings running after everyone else had given up.
The label on the jacket said Barnes.
Isaiah introduced himself and, suddenly feeling silly, asked if he had ever met a girl named Victoria Hayes who had attended the school years ago.
Mister.
Barnes stared at him for a moment, then at the fence, and then back at Isaiah.
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