Room 204 is already chaos when you push through the door.

Desks are pushed into a loose semicircle, spines of worn paperbacks stacked in uneven towers on the windowsill. A poster of Dickinson glares at the chalkboard. Someone's drawn devil horns on her in permanent marker.

But his eyes linger half a second longer than they should.

He's wearing a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar loose. His hair's a little longer than last year. The late August sun catches through the blinds and turns his eyes honey-gold for just a moment before he looks away.

The bell hasn't rung yet. There's still time.