The three of them met at the log, the same log they sat on whenever they had their alone time. Third grade was tougher than grown-ups remembered. Running into the woods and along the creek after school was the therapy they needed. New shoes muddied, thorns tore denim and flesh, falling leaves made the path slippery.
Whoever made it to the log first had the job of rolling it and taking the journal from the box beneath. Tyler made it first almost every day. His class was closest to the doors. The twins usually found him on the log two or three minutes after he sat and opened the book. Today, the twins walked, heads hung low, not saying a word as they tossed their bags and sat with thumps.
"I don't think we can go home, again." The oldest twin always took the lead." I don't think either of us can watch him hit her, again."
"I think we should tell Mr. Harris." Tyler's eight-year-old heart ached to help.
"No!" The younger twin glared, then turned his eyes to the sky. "There's no one that can help. Not here, not at school, not up there."
All three sat on the log, looking through the clouds.
"What should I write?"