When she got home, she noticed her father had left the window open again- good going dad I'm not trying to heat the outdoors here- and ran to shut it. She dropped her backpack on the dusty recliner, and walked to the heater. She ran her fingers over her knuckles. They were dry and coarse, almost frost-bitten. She touched her cheeks, which were bright red and cold to the touch. She didn't really care; it's not like anyone else did anyway. She grabbed her backpack and began rummaging through it. What she was looking for was not there; The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. She wiped off her look of disappointment and just sat next to the heater, alone.
Mr. Barrens, after staying an extra two hours to help some students who were falling behind, was finally ready to leave. He locked his classroom door and proceeded to head downstairs. He saw something (from w