Normally, she would be popping in a movie right about now, a plate of pizza on her lap like most Friday nights. A Saturday of grading papers would follow, and then a Sunday of church and dinner with the parents. She shrugged one shoulder. A break from routine wouldn’t hurt.

And this was Lenny.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, she prayed she wouldn’t have to confront Lenny’s drunken foster father.

A dog hurled itself, spitting and growling, against the filth-encrusted screen of a ground-floor apartment. Jumping back, she dubiously eyed the tiny screws holding the screen in place—the only thing preventing the animal from mauling her.

Gripping the iron railing with a clammy palm, she fled up the steps, doing her best to ignore the sudden memory of her cousin’s mastiff attacking her when she was only eight.

The barking grew fainter as she neared the door of apartment 212. The sound of a television blared through the steel-framed door. She rapped on the door. No answer. She tried again, harder this time.

Suddenly a hard voice demanded, “What do you want?”

Claire spun around, clutching the stinging knuckles of her hand. An elderly woman with sagging jowls and deeply carved wrinkles peered from a cracked door across the way.

“I’m looking for Lenny. The boy who lives here. Do you know him?”

Small, piercing eyes studied her above the sagging chain lock. “You a social worker?” Before Claire could answer, the woman rushed forth with, “ ’Cause you should’ve taken that boy away a long time ago.”

“I’m not a social worker.” Claire shook her head vigorously. “I’m his English teacher.”

The old woman snorted. “What kinda teacher makes house calls?”

“He’s been absent three days.” Three days. And Lenny never missed class. “I’m worried. Tomorrow’s his SAT, and I want to make sure he’s there.” Claire didn’t voice her other concern—that she feared his foster father had harmed him.

The woman absorbed this. Her disdain seemed to abate, and the hard glint to her eyes softened. She peered cautiously to the left and right before undoing the chain and opening the door wider to stick her salt-and-pepper head out. “The boy’s gone. Forget ’bout him.”

“Gone?” Claire frowned.

“Yeah, gone.” The woman shooed Claire with her wrinkled hand. “Now you go on home. You shouldn’t be here.” Her head bobbed up and down. “Go on now. Leave. And don’t come back here again.”

She blinked at the strange command and jabbed her thumb at the apartment behind her. “Has something happened to Lenny?”

Those piercing, ancient eyes narrowed. “I seen the boy. These ol’ eyes seen a whole world of things.” She paused, pointing two gnarly, arthritic fingers to each of her eyes. “I seen the boy. And he’s gone. Just forget ’bout him.”