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The classroom smelled of chalk dust and lemon polish, but beneath it clung the metallic tang of fear. Eight-year-old Timothy sat rigid in the third row, knuckles white around his pencil. Sister Agnes loomed at the blackboard, veil stark as a blade, scrawling in furious loops: GOD IS LOVE . Timothy’s hand trembled as it rose. “Timothy?” Her voice cut like a ruler across knuckles. “Sister…” His throat clicked. “Yesterday, Jericho. God said kill everyone . Men. Women. Little kid