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Ferrin had been working all morning to clear the old school dome, but it was the stacks of little yellow chairs that finally made the tears come. He and Ina had pulled fading drawings from the walls, pushed child-sized desks up against the curved walls and thrown away moldering files full of the work of generations grown and gone. It had all been difficult, but there was something about those towers of miniature plastic chairs that triggered all Ferrin’s stifled emotions. He remembered sitting on one of those chairs listening in terror as old Mrs. Lister marched back and forth