“No,” I say. “It’s not like that.” But I wonder. Are you running again? Did the woman you saw in your classroom, the mysterious teacher’s aide with silver-white hair, have anything to do with this?

Ms. Howard sighs. “If you allowed Pearl to take part in the camp, Mr. Elias, it might give you a nice break from the child.”

A break. I know I am old to be raising a child. I do not need a break.

“Do you mind if I take a look back through the school one last time before I go home?” I ask, weary.

Ms. Howard doesn’t say anything, only turns and leads me toward the metal door.

I reach up absently and rub the knot again. I can’t help sizing the knot up. I used to be very good at convincing myself it was shrinking. It’s amazing how successful we can be at fooling ourselves, but that was wishful thinking. I was so successful at talking myself into that illusion that by the time I went to the doctor, it was too late. Now I lay my index finger alongside the knot, like pointing a play gun into the middle of my head, and note that the knot reaches all the way out to the joint.

Inside the school, it is cool, almost cold. I suppose the sunlight streaming through all the classroom windows must have triggered the air-conditioning. The sweat on my forehead and the back of my neck now feels icy cold.

Ms. Howard hugs herself, rubs her arms briskly, and leads me through a set of double doors into the main hallway. “Pearl is a curious child,” she remarks, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to reply to that, or even if she meant to say it out loud.

I wait. The school is empty and quiet, and our footsteps sound rushed, out of place.

“There is much to be said in favor of children who have an imagination,” she continues, seeming to conduct a back-and-forth conversation with herself. Pearl is curious. Yes, but that is good.

“Is there?” I can’t help asking.

Ms. Howard glances over her shoulder as we turn a corner. “Of course,” she says, clearly confused that I would even question such a premise. “Curious children, those with real imagination, shape the world.”

Just as I am about to ask another question, this one about when, in her estimation, the world lost its shape, Ms. Davis comes out of the art room and nearly runs into us. “Oh! Ms. Howard, I’m sorry, excuse me.”

Ms. Davis is long and narrow in every way, built like a sapling. Her face is a thin oval shape, her eyes are long and wide, and her hair reaches down to the middle of her back. She is at least six inches taller than me, and that’s without the heels she is currently wearing. She crosses her thin arms. Everyone seems cold. There are shadows everywhere now that the school day is over—many classrooms are empty and some of the hall lights are off.