“Mr. Elias,” Ms. Howard begins again.

I jump, opening my eyes, because there she is, right in front of me. I don’t stand up though. I sway there awkwardly in the swing, and she’s not much taller than me, even though she’s standing.

“It’s about Pearl.”

“Pearl?”

She nods.

“I hope she’s not misbehaving.”

“Oh, nothing like that. Nothing at all like that! She’s doing very well. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I raise my eyebrows and wait. I am good at waiting for other people to speak. I have somehow developed a patience that almost enjoys the awkward silence.

Ms. Howard clears her throat nervously. I watch a gust of warm wind animate a few loose hairs on her head. “There’s . . . it’s . . . Pearl has been selected by her teachers to attend a weekend camp for high achievers. Not this weekend but next.”

“Yes,” I say. “No school on Monday?”

“That’s right. The retreat isn’t this weekend—it’s next weekend,” she repeats, as if talking to one of her students. “They’ll go to a camp north of here, play games, go through leadership exercises. It’s a wonderful opportunity for only a handful of children.”

I think of Dr. Cortez sitting on her stool as I left the examination room, the tiny birdlike feeling of her clavicle as I squeezed her shoulder. I think of how one side of her mouth twitched. I think of her words.

Anytime to three months.

“No, I’m afraid not,” I say vacantly.

“Oh, you can take some time to think—”

“No, not Pearl. I’m afraid not.”

She stares at me with something like confusion. I can tell she is not someone who is used to hearing the word no.

“It would really be a wonderful opportunity for—”

“Not Pearl,” I say, each word a dead weight. “I’m afraid not.”

She purses her lips. I close my eyes and lean back in the swing, begin that soft front-and-back movement. Even with my eyes closed I can feel her disdain cling to me like humidity. I know what she is thinking—I am causing my grandchild to miss out. I am too old, perhaps, to recognize the opportunity for what it is. I’m not a fit parent.

I can hear the light scuffing of her footsteps back to the school. I hear the heavy sound of the metal door opening.

“Ms. Howard!” I suddenly say, untangling myself awkwardly from the swing.

“Yes?” she asks, pausing, cautiously hopeful.

I walk across the playground, limping. My right foot has fallen asleep. “What’s the date?”

“The date? Of the camp?”

“No, today,” I say.

“Today?”

“Yes, today’s date.”

She stares up into the hot sky, the ash-colored sky, hovering as it is above us, perhaps threatening a thunderstorm later. Her gaze pierces the humidity and finds the sun even there, even while it is hidden. She shakes her head and wrinkles her brow. “The 22nd?”

“September 22nd?” I ask.

“September 22nd,” she says, flitting inside, the door crashing scornfully behind her.