My day goes by slowly. Every class seems to drag on for hours and hours, and I keep checking my phone, only to find that no more than a few minutes have passed since I last looked at the time. When school is finally out and I need to head to the bodega, I tell myself that this is the last thing I have to do—I only have to get through my shift today, and before I know it, I’ll be seeing Ma.

I’m standing behind the counter, counting down the hours until closing time, when Graciela Muñoz walks in.

“I heard you’re going to see your ma tomorrow,” she says to me. Again, I have no idea how word got out about this, but I don’t ask who told her.

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“Please tell her I’m thinking of her, praying for her,” she says, and then she pulls something out of her purse. It’s a bag of magdalenas from Don Alfonso’s, the bakery next to the church.

“I’m not sure if you’ll be able to give this to your ma, but I bought it for her. I know how much she loves these.”

I take the bag and thank Graciela, not bothering to explain that they definitely won’t allow something like this inside the detention center.

A small while later, Carlos Acevedo shows up. “Do you need anyone to drive you up there?”

“N-no. We’re fine.”

“Okay, then. Good luck, Mateo. Tell your mother we’re waiting for her to come back.”

I nod, but again, I don’t say anything. The more I hear people say that they’re counting on the fact that my parents will return home, the more terrified I am at the possibility that they won’t.

When Saturday morning finally arrives, Jorge, Sophie, and I wake up at the crack of dawn, even though we were all wishing we could sleep in. Ellie had a better night, but she still kept us up for a good hour or two.

Jorge borrowed Amy’s parents’ car so he could drive us up to Buffalo. I take the passenger seat, and Sophie rides in the back. We get out of the city quickly—there’s no traffic at this time on a Saturday—and soon enough we’re on the highway.

We’re silent most of the way. Sophie keeps busy in the back with the stuffed penguin she chose to bring, and I sneak glances at her every now and then, trying to make sure she’s okay. It’s been at least a year since Mr. Frizzle has made an appearance. I wonder what made Sophie bring him back out, if there’s something Mr. Frizzle can offer—company, or hope, or comfort—that I’ve been unable to give to her.