Part 4: Blood and Bleach
Ellis Merrow returned to work the next Monday.
He came early — before the buses arrived, before the morning bell echoed through Dutch Hollow Regional High. The air was cold and sharp, the kind that wakes your lungs like a slap. His breath fogged in front of him as he unlocked the side door and stepped inside.
He carried his usual thermos of black coffee. But this time, in his coat pocket, was something new: Basil’s old collar, folded twice, the tag tucked in like a quiet secret.
The building smelled like it always had — old books, waxed tile, microwaved lunches from Friday still lingering in the teacher’s lounge. But beneath it, Ellis could smell something else.
Bleach.
He had scrubbed the hallway himself after the lockdown. Refused any help. Said he didn’t want someone else to have to see the blood.
The blood of his dog.
And maybe some of his own.
He’d gotten a cracked rib and a bruised wrist. Nothing that kept him home. Nothing he couldn’t work through.
But the ache wasn’t in the bone. It was deeper.
At 6:32 a.m., he unlocked Room 214.
Isaac’s classroom.
He didn’t need to. It wasn’t on his list. But he went in anyway.
The chairs were neatly stacked. The board was still faintly stained with equations from last week.
On the teacher’s desk was something new: a small wooden carving.
A shepherd dog.
Crude, but careful. The ears were uneven. One eye was slightly bigger than the other. But there was no mistaking who it was.
Basil.
Ellis stared at it, then picked it up, thumb brushing the edges like prayer beads.
In the bottom was a tiny note, folded once.
“For the one who waited.
— I.M.”
He set the carving back down. Swallowed. Left without wiping the tears from his face.
By second period, word had spread that Ellis was back.
The staff tried not to make it awkward. A few teachers offered awkward thumbs-ups. One patted him on the back in the hallway.
The principal — a wiry man named Kirkland — gave him a brisk nod in the main office.
“We’re adding security,” Kirkland said. “New cameras. Extra personnel. Should’ve been done sooner.”
Ellis just nodded.
He didn’t care about the cameras. They wouldn’t have stopped a man with a tire iron.
It was Basil who slowed him. Basil who bought them time.
No camera would do that.
Lunch came and went. Ellis stayed late. There was always more to mop when no one was looking.
At 3:46 p.m., the halls emptied. The last bell rang.
Ellis pushed his cart toward the west wing. He didn’t need to go that way — not today. But something in him wanted to walk the path again.
The path where Basil fell.
He turned the corner and stopped.
The floor looked clean now. He’d bleached it twice. But he could still see it — not the blood, but the shape Basil made when he collapsed.
Curled. Still loyal.
Still trying to protect him.
Ellis leaned on the mop handle, eyes closed.
That’s when he heard it.
Shoes.
He turned.
Isaac.
Not in uniform. Just jeans, hoodie, hair still damp from basketball practice.
“You shouldn’t be back here,” Ellis said. Not harsh, just habit.
Isaac shrugged. “Thought you’d be here.”
They stood in silence. The clock on the wall ticked too loud.
Then Isaac spoke.
“I was ashamed,” he said. “Of you.”
Ellis didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. Just waited.
“I didn’t want people to know my dad was the janitor. I wanted to be… better. Different.”
“You are different,” Ellis said. “You’re not me.”
Isaac looked at him, eyes glossy.
“But I was wrong,” he said. “You didn’t need to be more than you are. You were already enough.”
Ellis let out a long, slow breath.
“Then maybe we both misunderstood.”
Isaac walked forward. His shoes squeaked once on the tile. He stopped at the spot. The one Basil had died on.
“I don’t want to forget where he fell,” he said. “But I also don’t want him to be just a story we tell.”
Ellis reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out Basil’s collar.
“Take it,” he said. “You knew him longer than you realized.”
Isaac took it in both hands. Held it like something holy.
The brass tag clinked against his ring.
Merrow. He waits.
They didn’t say anything more. They just stood there together — father and son, mop and memory — in the place where the dog had made his final stand.
That evening, back home, Ellis didn’t cook.
Isaac did.
He burned the first round of grilled cheese, but Ellis ate it anyway. With a smile.
Later, they sat on the back porch. Basil’s grave sat beneath the spruce, covered now with light snow.
“I want to do something,” Isaac said. “For him. For Mom. For you.”
Ellis looked over.
Isaac didn’t look like a boy anymore. He looked like someone trying to make peace.
“I want to build a bench,” he said. “Right by the tree. With all three of your names carved in.”
Ellis nodded once. “That’d be real good.”
They sat in silence. Not an empty silence — but one full of shared breath, past wounds, and something new beginning to heal.
Behind them, the kitchen light flickered. Inside, the carving of Basil waited on the mantle.
And outside, in the dark, the snow fell slow and soft. Like a blessing.