“Thanks,” I say.

I walk away. Nothing in the world feels emptier than a vacant playground. A line of gray clouds drifts in front of the sun. I walk out through the wide gate at the far side of the schoolyard. When I look back, I see Ms. Howard still standing by the door, watching me walk away. She waves, and something like affection for her stirs deep inside of me. Aren’t most of us doing our best with the path we’ve been given? She cares for Pearl—I know that. Couldn’t that be enough?

The alley stretches ahead of me, long and narrow and mostly uphill for the five blocks between me and our house. I pass the empty lot, peering into the tall autumn weeds to see if you’ve nestled there like some runaway bunny, but you are not there. I cross the street, and when I think of you crossing streets, the anxiety I’ve been able to keep at bay begins to rise. I hope you check both ways. I know you will come home if you can.

But what if something happens to you, and you can’t?

You remind me so much of your father at your age. He used to run away too when I put my foot down. He would shout something boisterous, something meant to hurt me, like, “But you’ll never be as good as a mother!” and he’d slip out the door. He always came home after dark, listless and wordlessly apologetic. We were missing so many things back then, living with so many gaping wounds that had never been dressed. We had no idea how to tenderly care for each other’s injuries. Silently walking around our transgressions seemed to be the kindest thing to do, and for many years I thought his wounds had healed. But some had festered. I know this now, much too late.

Yet in all of the wordlessness that existed between John and me, there was also quiet affection. He would move to my side of the couch as we watched baseball. Or come slide under the covers in my bed late at night, when the darkness took on a physical presence in the house. I could feel his eyes searching my face when he thought I was sleeping. You do similar things now, holding my hand and examining the lines, the veins, the patterns in my skin. And we usually do not talk about your running away or the strange things you say. We keep moving forward.

I move farther along the narrow alley, closer to home, still looking for you. I cross another street, and I enter that section of alleyway with tall brick buildings on both sides. The one on the left is the solid back of a building dotted with metal doors that lead to offices and a day care and a corner store. But the one on the right is derelict, vacant. The power lines above me droop, heavy. The windows—and this is the first time I notice this—have been closed in with cinder blocks, gray squares that form a kind of pattern along the three stories of brick. It is early afternoon, but in the alley it feels closer to dusk, it’s cooler, and the shadows are thick and alive. There are wide metal vents, rusty and bent, that lead into the empty building, but I don’t hear any air coming through. An aching sense of emptiness exudes from the building—it smells like dust and overheated rubber and something burning in the distance.