“The silver-haired woman said she needs my help to find something, something that means a lot to her. It’s somewhere in the town where you grew up. When are we going?”

My chest feels hollow. It has been a while since you’ve made things up like this, but the ring of truth laced through your tales unsettles me. In kindergarten you told a lot of stories, but you were little, and the squeakiness of your voice gave you a pass, comforted your father and me, because of course a tiny little girl would have imaginary friends to take tea with. Of course a six-year-old’s bear told her fairy tales and guarded her bed at night. Of course.

But at some point, it started feeling a bit odd. And now that you’re eleven-almost-twelve, it feels like a kind of willful misbehaving. The silliness is gone. At eleven, your eyes bear the light of seriousness, and you are often taken aback when I don’t entirely believe your stories.

“Where I grew up?” I clear my throat, and my next words fade. “Is that right.”

I watch you swing. Maybe you did have an aide in class. Maybe it was a simple exercise, a coincidence. Is it so unlikely that a child would draw a map with a cabin or a lake? I am suddenly relieved, talked back to earth by the quiet sound of the breeze and the dimming of the world as a cloud swallows the sun. I look for your teacher, and I see her standing by the school.

“Ms. Pena?” I call out. “One second, Pearl. You can keep swinging.”

I can’t tell if you hear me or not—your eyes are closed, your face pure childish ecstasy as you glide through the air. I lay your backpack down beside the swing and drift in the direction of your teacher, my hands in my pockets.

“Mr. Elias, you’re looking well.” Ms. Pena says this with a flirtatious grin, though I am at least ten years her senior. I don’t know if she does this to be funny or to make me blush. When she sees that I’m embarrassed, she grins, mission accomplished. She adjusts the straps on a little girl’s backpack before sending her off with her parent.

“Yes, well, thank you,” I say, reaching up and nervously touching the marble-sized tumor above my ear, hidden among the weeds of my hair. Still there.

It is always still there, no matter how many times I check. And it always seems the tiniest bit bigger, although that’s not possible. Is it? That it would grow by the hour? By the minute?

“Pearl was telling me about her day.” I try to keep my words light, but Ms. Pena can tell something is off.

“You’re such a wonderful guardian,” she says, again in a playful voice, trying to lighten things up. “I wish I had a guardian like you. Someone handsome to watch out for me.” She seems almost embarrassed by her own boldness, like a small chipmunk darting out into the open before spinning around and vanishing into the shadows.