Mrs. Anderson turns. I hover in the doorway and start to step forward as her eyes widen in recognition. But a small shake of her head stops me in my tracks and she turns back toward her project as if she never saw me at all.

For the second time today, the sting of rejection pricks deep into my heart. Still, I wait for several more seconds, hoping she will look back at me. When she doesn’t, I hurry toward the staircase at the end of the hall. I blink away the tears I refuse to let fall, keep my head down, and make my way to the atrium. Someone bumps me. I grab hold of my tablet to keep it from crashing to the ground and walk on—through the atrium, past the elevators and the security guard, until finally I stand in the sunshine outside the gold doors and am no longer able to control the tears that fall.

Disappointment floods through me. No matter how hard I try to hold on to her, my mother is slipping further and further away, as are the dreams I once had for my future.

I swipe at my cheek and look up and down the street for Isaac’s car. Isaac and Rose probably think I’m still discussing my work and that they have lots of time to kill before I need them to fetch me. And I’m glad. The short time spent in my meeting will give away how badly it went. Poor Rose. She worked so hard, and even enlisted her father—which had to have taken a lot of persuasion. It isn’t her fault that my talent fell short. She shouldn’t have to feel bad because she tried to help. So as much as I want to go home, I decide to walk around the block and get myself together before I call them to pick me up. It’s the least I can do for all that she has done for me.

The light changes, and I follow a bunch of businessmen across the street. I start to turn down the block when I notice a guy standing next to a light post who stops me in my tracks.

I think I know him.

No. I take a step forward and squint into the sunlight. We have never met. But I have seen him before. And when he turns and I see him slide a piece of paper into the front pocket of his pants, I realize where I know him from.

Black hooded sweatshirt. Rich brown skin. Close-cropped hair. Blue jeans that fit like a second skin and red shoelaces that snake up his black high-tops. It’s the guy I saw out the window of my math class, searching the bush after the cops arrested the magenta-haired man and carted him away.

But it can’t really be him. It has to be a coincidence. Still, after going months without seeing any paper, I can’t help thinking the two things are connected. Maybe that’s why I find myself trailing him when he turns and heads down La Salle Street toward the river. His stride is long and quick, and I have to jog a bit to keep up with him. He pauses to wait for the stoplight to change, and I get close enough to see his profile.