I clean up and go out in search of you, feeling unsteady. The long hallway is quiet and still, which seems strange for this hour of the morning. Shouldn’t people be up and around? Shouldn’t parents be herding children to the continental breakfast or businesspeople be moving efficiently on the cheap carpet, their roller bags leaving small tracks behind them?

The emptiness of the hallway is unnerving.

I turn the corner, and at first all I notice is the empty lobby. There isn’t even anyone at the reception desk, so I pause. I reach up and touch the knot on my head. Decidedly bigger.

I see the old man we met the night before sitting at a table for two, and you across from him, listening intently while eating a piece of toast. I walk over.

“Pearl,” I say in a firm voice.

You seem surprised, like I was the last person on earth you expected to find there that morning in that hotel, in that small dining area, surrounded by the smell of bacon and biscuits and waffles. “Hi, Grampy,” you say, and there is nothing defensive in your voice, nothing ill at ease. You clearly have no clue that I am ready to give you a stern talking-to.

The old man turns and looks at me dismissively, only nodding the briefest of acknowledgments.

“Where have you been?” I ask you.

“What?”

“Where have you been?” I ask again, quieter this time, slower. “When I woke up and you weren’t there, I was worried.”

“I thought we had agreed to meet here,” you say. “For breakfast. At seven a.m.”

“Yes, but you’re eleven years old. You shouldn’t walk around on your own in a strange place.”

The old man turns and gives me a look that clearly communicates, What’s wrong with you, mister?

I shake my head. I grab a chair from a neighboring table and pull it over, but the old man stands, gathers his things.

“You two go ahead,” he says, his morning voice scratchy. “I should be getting on.”

I don’t say anything, not even when you get up, walk around the table, and give him a hug, the kind where you wrap yourself close and hold on for an extra moment. Tears gather in the man’s eyes. He clears his throat, pries himself away, and walks out the front door.

“Pearl,” I begin, but to be honest, I don’t know what to say to you. These kinds of things—you disappearing or running off or leaving for hours at a time—have been going on for so long that I’ve given up on reforming you in any way. So I change direction. “How was breakfast?”

You smile as you sit down. “He’s seen the woman too. The one helping me with my map,” you say, focusing on your toast while you talk. “That’s why he’s afraid.”

“The woman?” I ask.

You nod.

“The one you’ve been seeing at school? And in the building in the alley?”

You nod again. “The one who helped me with the map, the one who needs my help,” you say again, insinuating that I am clearly not operating on all brain cells. “But I told him not to be afraid. There’s really nothing to be afraid of.”