I hope she’s right, but even after I go to bed, I worry. Mom knows that things upset me, she knows how my mind always goes to the worst thing, so she tries to show me the positive side of everything. Ms. Sullivan is fine; nothing’s happened to her. But still, I worry.

The next day, Ms. Sullivan is still missing. The morning news people speculate about foul play, an expression I hate—it’s so creepy and horrible and sends my mind reeling to dark places.

Mom turns off the TV. “Don’t pay attention,” she says. “They always exaggerate. The police are still calling it a missing person case.”

After Mom leaves for work, Skylar comes over and we sit on the porch steps and talk about Ms. Sullivan.

“She was worried about something when we saw her at the mall,” I say.

“She didn’t look worried to me,” Skylar says. “Remember her shopping bags? Maybe she bought new clothes for a trip and she’s in New York City. Isn’t that where artists hang out?”

“She’d tell her sister if she was going away.”

“You don’t know what she does when she’s not teaching. She might have a whole secret life.”

I lean back on my elbows. Skylar’s right. I don’t know anything about Ms. Sullivan’s private life. I make up stories about her, about her apartment and her furniture and why she isn’t married, but all I really know is what she’s like in school.

“One thing I do know about her—she loves hiking,” I tell Skylar. “Remember that story in the news last year about the woman who fell off a cliff in California?”

“The one who landed on a beach, and nobody could see her from the road?”

“She was there for three or four days, maybe a week, trying to catch somebody’s attention. Finally this couple came along with their dog and she was rescued.”

“So why are you telling me this?” Skylar asks.

“Because Ms. Sullivan could have gone hiking in a state park and fallen down a cliff and they’ll find her alive and okay, just like the woman in California.”

While I talk, I picture Ms. Sullivan in her hiking boots, trapped at the bottom of a cliff. Maybe she broke her arm or her leg and she can’t climb out and there’s no signal for her phone. At last, these people come along and their dog smells her and she’s rescued. I see it clearly on News at Seven, the big story of the day. The more I make up, the more real my story gets.

Skylar stands up and stretches. “That could be,” she says. “Yeah, she might have done that.”

She looks at me. “What do you want to do today?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“I asked first.”