The Silence

The air in the nap room changed.

James felt it first—like the oxygen had been sucked out. Marlene shifted on her feet, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The young assistant looked like she might faint.

Diesel stopped scratching. He sat down firmly on the trapdoor, eyes locked, body tense, ears forward. His bark had drawn a line in the sand.

James raised his radio. His voice was steady, but inside, his pulse hammered.

“Dispatch, this is Officer Nolan at Little Leaf Daycare. I’ve got a K-9 alert and possible structural anomaly. Requesting immediate backup and inspection team. Possible code violation.”

Static crackled back. “Copy that, Officer Nolan. Backup en route.”

James lowered the radio and looked at Marlene.

“No one leaves this building until my team gets here. I need access to all staff files, floor plans, and your licensing documents.”

Her mouth opened to protest, but Diesel let out a long, low growl.

Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just certain.

The nap room went quiet. Too quiet.

And in that silence, James knew—whatever was under that floor, it wasn’t going to be glue.

…

Diesel sat planted on the rug like a statue, his chest rising and falling in tight rhythm, his eyes fixed on the seams in the floor as though his stare alone could burn straight through the boards.

James kept one hand near his radio, the other hovering just above Diesel’s back, steadying him without pulling him away. The nap room felt colder now, though the heater hummed faintly in the wall. Outside the hallway, the sound of children’s chatter and tiny footsteps had faded. Even the music—bright songs about ABCs and sunshine—seemed quieter, muted, like the building itself was holding its breath.