He pries the name tag from the door, feels the rough, raised letters, and laughs silently at the sound of the name: Feldspar. He casts the plastic strip onto the pile of furniture.
Next, the gasoline from the hallway. It’s an old can, a metal can, a hand-me-down from his father. He douses the desks, the fallen shelves, and the wounded books. He shakes the can to chase free the last drops.
The can drops to the tiled hallway floor with an empty thunk. He fishes through his pockets, sure he had a lighter, but it’s gone missing.
A hand taps him on the shoulder, and the man turns in the darkness, surprised to see a fifteen-year-old face washed in the pale red of the exit sign. The other boys wear masks and carry plastic canisters.
The boy holds out a hand. “Need a light, Mr. Feldspar?”
Yeah. I'm at school again...today is the first day of "meetings". I'm sure you can guess the inspiration for that little tale.