I’ve reached the end of the hall and I’m at the classroom door I saw the man standing at. I push it open. It’s Mr. Baxter’s room. My annoyance at Rhys disappears when I step inside. I move down an aisle of desks, touching my hands to them as I pass. The wrongness of it all creeps up on me. I don’t want to forget the function of this place.

I don’t want to forget how it used to be.

I reach Baxter’s desk and sit in his chair while Rhys stands in the center of the room, watching. There’s an agenda in front of me. Who uses things like these anymore when there are smartphones? I flip to a random page and see an appointment for the dentist, but right underneath that it says Madeline this morning: red nightgown and I am overcome by how personal these five words are. It reminds me of Lily telling me how our mom used to use the calendar on the bulletin board in the kitchen like a diary. Appointments noted, yes, but also little tidbits like girls fought—Sloane took Lily’s dolls! Lily said Mom saved them all and I asked Dad about them once, but he wouldn’t tell me where he kept them, or even if he did …

“Guilt,” Rhys says.

I look up. “What?”

“The man you saw. I bet it’s because you feel guilty about the guy outside.”

“Oh, really.”

“I’m not being an asshole,” he says. “I’m just saying maybe that’s why you thought you saw someone. Like it’s … stress. Guilt.”

“But I don’t feel guilty about the man.” It’s a lie but I balance it with truth. “I’m jealous.”

“He’s turned, Sloane. He’s out there right now.”

“I know.”

Rhys is losing weight, I notice that now. His cheek-bones are so sharp, sharper than I remember them being before and he already has an angular face. We’re wasting away.

“You really think there’s nothing left for us?” he asks.

“I think there’s nothing left for me. I don’t think that for everyone else.”

“So what do they have that you don’t at this point?”

I press my lips together. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t want to talk about how everyone has something even if they don’t really have it anymore, that what they had makes them strong enough for this, to keep going.

“Guilt,” Rhys repeats.

“I didn’t see that man. It was—”

Shut up. Shut up.

“Who did you think it was?” His voice is quiet now like we’re in a church. There’s a determined look in his eyes. I know he’ll push this until he gets an answer, so I just tell him.

“My father. I thought—him.”

“I thought your father was dead.”

“I hope he is.” I swallow. “I wish it.”

I make him speechless. It’s a nicer feeling than it should be. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get how I could sit here and say something like that and mean it. But why would he. His home life was probably—not like mine. I bet it was perfect. I bet even the worst parts of it were better than mine. Before he can ask more, Cary steps into the room, breathless.