“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mrs. Walker,” Principal Vance said. He looked at Richard, then back to me.

“We want to see the tape,” I said. My jaw was locked. My pulse was drumming in my ears.

The principal nodded. He turned his computer monitor toward us and hit play on a video file. The screen showed the concrete alleyway next to the gym near the dumpsters.

A boy named Toby was standing there. Toby has Down syndrome, and I knew him because he lived three blocks away from us. He was holding a green backpack, looking terrified.

Three older boys in heavy winter jackets walked into the frame. They cornered Toby against the brick wall. One of them pushed him. Another grabbed his green backpack and threw it on the wet ground. Toby began to cry, covering his face with his hands.

“There,” Richard pointed at the screen. “That is disgusting. Where is Tyler?”

Then Tyler walked into the frame. He was wearing his faded blue winter coat.

He did not join the three boys. He did not laugh. He stepped directly in front of Toby, using his own body as a shield. He pushed the tallest bully back. He stood tall, his hands down, refusing to fight but refusing to move.

The tallest bully stepped forward and delivered a hard punch straight to Tyler’s jaw. Tyler stumbled back against the brick wall, but he did not swing back. He just stood right up again, placing himself between Toby and the boys.

The bullies stared at him for a second. Then they turned and ran off.

Tyler turned around, picked up Toby’s green backpack, wiped the mud off it, and handed it back to him. He gave Toby a reassuring hug.

The principal paused the video.

I could not draw a breath. My heart felt like it was stuck in my throat. I looked at my son’s bruised face on the screen and realized what I had done.

“Mrs. Walker,” Principal Vance said softly. “Your son Tyler is not the bully. He is the only reason Toby has been safe for the last four months.”

“But the email,” I whispered. “Why did you send me that email?”