I think about Mia whispering papers like warmth required permission.
And this woman is talking about zippers.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, flat.
The district woman hesitates, and for one second I can see it—she’s not a monster. She’s a cog. She has rules and policies and a job that depends on her not feeling too much.
“We want it managed,” she says. “Official. Approved. Controlled.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
She slides a form toward me.
A form with blanks.
Inventory list.
Donation tracking.
Parent permission.
Distribution guidelines.
Liability waiver.
A whole stack of paper that essentially says:
WARMTH MUST BE ADMINISTERED PROPERLY.
I laugh once—just a sharp, humorless sound.
The principal winces.
“This is what you want?” I say. “A six-year-old needs a waiver to borrow mittens?”
“No,” the district woman says, and her voice softens. “But when something goes viral, it becomes… complicated.”
There it is.
The truth.
Not the coats.
Not the kids.
The problem is that people saw it.
That afternoon, my phone buzzes nonstop.
Teachers in other schools message me.
“Are you okay?”
“District is sniffing around.”
“Someone mentioned you at the staff meeting.”
A parent I barely know sends me a long text full of prayer emojis and hearts.
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