Since all of Miss Beagle's pupils were underage, they were not yet aware of their genetic makeup - though many could guess. Keeli, for instance, was most assuredly of Gazelle descent.

“The long, spirally horns are a dead giveaway.” Sid had told her. Though her dark, doe eyes and short brown fur helped complete the picture.

Jireh's long arms and muscular physique pegged him as a Simian - which is why he would not have taken offense to Yanna calling him an ape if she had said it out loud. Sid - like Beatrice - was mostly canine, though - unlike her - he didn't know the variety, and Wolo was just a little lamb.

Yanna had the large ears and golden fur of a Fennec Fox, and nearly everyone agreed that Ismelda was just a little sow. She was pink and mostly hairless, with a squiggly little tail and a round snout. Miss Beagle's attachment of the “Jenny” moniker was her way of calling Ismelda stubborn - as “Jenny” is the proper ancestral term for a female mule.

I can't just call her pig-headed. She knew. The school board had rules for teacher conduct, after all. Beatrice, not being very fond of her little troublemaker, had put a lot of thought into how to deal with her. She kept most of those thoughts tightly locked away. Calling her stubborn in an obtuse way was more than she usually let herself get away with. She tried to remember – in her dealings with the troublesome brat – that her fight was not with Ismelda. It was with the school board and the child’s parents.

Why, in the world, would you jump a kid ahead a grade? She had argued that point with the board until she was blue in the face. “Sure, she's able to pass the Intelligence tests, but there's a gaping difference in the maturity levels of my kids, and her!” She told them. The board members hadn't listened. Ismelda's parents were very - shall we say - pervasive. Yes, you read that right – pervasive. There was no other way to describe them. They hounded the board members, making their lives unbearable, in their pursuit of what they saw as their daughter’s best interest.

In the end, the members just wanted them to go away. So, Beatrice was given no choice and a new student.

She had to act up, today! Her teacher moaned, as she did nearly every day when Ismelda acted up. Fortunately, her special guest had not witnessed any of the events in the hallway. He was sequestered safely away in the little office at the back of her classroom.

Twenty-four hours from now Ismelda’s antics would cause more trouble for her teacher, as well as the young Jireh Jor. Though none of us but Mycah knew it.

“Miss Beagle? Miss beagle?” A tiny voice called, trying to pull the teacher’s attention from Ismelda. A tiny hand pulled at her skirt, finally accomplishing what the voice, alone, could not.

“What is it, Karen?” Beatrice asked. The child - an avian with brightly colored plumage of reds, yellows, and blues – almost thought better of the interruption when Beatrice’s harsh gaze fell on her. By way of an answer, she held up a drawing for the adult to consider. “Where did you get this?” Beatrice asked.

“She dropped it!” The girl said, fingering Ismelda.

I moved to get a better look at the page. It was a crude drawing of two figures - one a child with pink skin and a curly tail, the other a fiery looking creature I could not identify. Both were dancing, surrounded by flames.

“Thank you, Karen.” Beatrice said, dismissing the child. “I’ll take care of it.” She folded the paper and put it in her purse, but before she turned back to Ismelda a memory flashed through her mind, which I was privy to. The scene we witnessed in that flash made both of us shudder a bit. Imagine, if you will, meeting a new student for the first time. A small child, not long from the teat. Cute, and prim, and proper by all accounts. Most of us would assume that a babe that young would have only rainbows and lollipops in their brain. But this was not so of Ismelda Durant. Her brain was filled with fire, and death, and dancing with her imaginary friend. Beatrice, though, was not shocked by the fiery picture Karen handed her. She had seen similar works. Always the same flames. Always the same two figures. Always dancing as the world burned around them.

“Who is that?” She had asked, the first time.

“That’s Roh!” Ismelda had exclaimed. “We’re going to watch the world burn!”

The dark eyes that should have held only innocence brightened with the thought of a world on fire. And it wasn’t just the drawings that concerned the Bitch, Beatrice Beagle. It was the numerous times she had caught Ismelda playing with matches, or lighters, or lighting up inside when some educational film they were watching in class showed a forest fire, or an explosion. In fact, the eyes of her smallest student had never burned as bright as when their teacher showed them the required footage that was supposed to prepare them for the possibility of a nuclear attack. It affected her so much, that she would dance happily whenever the time came for one of the district’s routine Fallout Drills. The high she got from it would last the rest of the day, and sometimes into the next.

It was a frightening thing, knowing that someone with so much future ahead of them was already spoiled beyond help. Beatrice couldn’t imagine anything good coming from Ismelda’s obsession. She had already written her off. That was the part that got me. In her teacher’s mind, Ismelda Durant was hopeless – and not just hopeless, but a detriment to the peaceful society her and so many others desired. Beatrice – deep down – would have preferred that Ismelda had never been born.

I saw that darkness in her, and it made me wonder if any of her other students were covered with it – or was it just the piglet? Chaos seemed to drive her. She abhorred it. She craved order and precision. Ismelda Durant offered her neither.

A ringing bell echoed through the hallway, and Beatrice herded her class into the appropriate room – scolding Ismelda the whole way.

“She hates that kid.” I said, offhand. More to get the idea out of my head and into the open, than in expectation of any response from Mycah. I looked in his direction. He was looking at me, not the receding class. His blue aura shimmered. His eyes were bright as sunlight, and I could not look into them for long. As I was turning my head away – for my vision’s sake – it occurred to me that he bore a striking resemblance to the flaming image of Roh – Ismelda’s imaginary friend. Only Mycah was blue, not red.

“Does she have a guardian angel like you, Mycah?” I asked, not looking at him – knowing his face would tell me nothing. It was always impassive. His expression never changed.

“Many do.” He said. “Most do not take this form.”

“What does that mean?”

“It simply means that not all of your species is privileged to actually see the forces that surround them.”

“Why are you so obtuse?” I asked. Mycah had a way of saying things in the most cryptic fashion, and it annoyed me terribly. I considered myself to be very straightforward in my speech and actions.

“Everything I say is the truth.” He said. “You simply don’t have the eyes to see it, yet.” He turned his wrist, propelling us forward in time, but not in space.