“I’m sorry,” she continues. Apologizing seems to be her way of interacting with the world. Others say hello. Ms. Davis apologizes. “I didn’t expect to see you without Pearl.”

“Without Pearl?” I say.

“Yes, she was here only a few minutes ago.” Ms. Davis peers around us, as if expecting to see Pearl fading away down the hall.

“She was?”

“She came back in from the playground and took the map she was working on today, and I gave her a few supplies. She said she needed it all for the trip.”

“The trip?” I ask. I don’t think I told Pearl we were going anywhere.

“I’m sorry. She said you’re going back to the place where you grew up?”

Again, the strange sense that I’m in the middle of a dream.

“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say. “Yes.”

“Mr. Elias, if Pearl is going to be out of school for more than three days, you’ll need to fill out an excused absence form. Otherwise the absences will be unlawful,” Ms. Howard says, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll take care of the form,” I say, with no intention of filling out any form.

“Did she say where she was going?” Ms. Howard asks Ms. Davis. “We didn’t see her on the playground.”

“We could have missed her,” I say. “Maybe she left as we were coming in. She could be outside waiting for me. Thank you, Ms. Davis.”

She nods, a sad smile on her face. Why is everyone giving me sad smiles today? Has the doctor already called the school? Is social services on the way? Hospice? Can I not be given one day to hold this news to myself?

We turn to walk away, but then I remember something. “Ms. Davis, did you have a teacher’s aide in class today, a white-haired woman?”

She looks confused. “No. We didn’t.”

Beyond her, the room is empty. “No visitors to class? No other parents?”

“I’m sorry, no,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s okay. Just curious.” I turn to walk outside, even though I know you will not be there. You have never been one for waiting.

We walk the halls, Ms. Howard and I. We exit the building through the heavy door, and it smashes closed behind us, like an ending. We stand there scanning the playground.

“I can go check the other side of the building,” Ms. Howard says, moving to do just that, but I stop her.

“No, she’s not there.”

“But I—”

“No, that’s okay. She doesn’t wait.”

Ms. Howard stares at me. “Should I ask some of the teachers to help?”

I sigh. Shake my head. “I’m sure she went home. I’m sure she . . .”

I know, more certainly than I know anything else, that you did not go home. Where you went, I have no idea. But after so many of your disappearances and so many of your undramatic returns, I am feeling more annoyed than worried.