Mr. Boyce has shadows under his eyes, like he isn’t sleeping. My heart is breaking for him.

The newswoman turns to Mr. Herman, my algebra teacher. It’s weird to see him and the rest of the faculty on TV. They’re gathered around a table in the newsroom. Behind them is a blown-up picture of Ms. Sullivan, taken on a day when she never expected to be a missing person.

Our principal, Ms. Greenbaum, winds things up. “We all hope Ms. Sullivan will return safely. She’s an outstanding member of our faculty, a great art teacher, and an award-winning artist herself.” She stares into the camera. “We love you, Kris. Be safe and come back to us.”

The newscaster brings the show to a close, and a Pepsi commercial comes on.

“When they show ads like that after a serious program,” Mom says, “it trivializes everything—as if they’re saying that a soda and Ms. Sullivan are equally important.”

Greg gives Mom a hug, then turns off the TV and says, “How about a trip to Dairy Queen? We need some cheering up.”

“Can Skylar come with us?” I ask.

“Of course,” Mom says.

I text her, and she meets us at the truck, ready to go. We climb into the small seat behind Greg and Mom.

“Did you watch the news?” she asks me.

“Mr. Boyce looked so sad.”

“I felt sorry for him, didn’t you?”

“I did. He’s so sensitive.”

“It’s the poetry,” Skylar says. “Every poem we read this year was sad.”

There’s a big crowd at the DQ, and Greg offers to stand in line for all of us. We grab a picnic table and wait for our shakes.

All around us the cicadas are singing in the treetops and the lightning bugs are flickering on and off like little sparks in the dark. The line moves slowly. People laugh and talk. A baby cries. Traffic whizzes back and forth on Route 203.

Sometimes we hear a radio blast part of a song before the car speeds away. Skylar and I try to guess what it is. Mom shouts out “the Rolling Stones,” and we laugh and say you have to be really old to recognize them.

At last Greg comes back with our order. Just as we finish up, we hear sirens, lots of them. Like a parade, but much faster, fire engines, ambulances, and police cars streak past. Lights flash blue and red across our faces. The sight of so many emergency vehicles scares me. Something awful has happened. People are hurt, dying. My throat clogs, and I push away what’s left of my shake.

“Must be a bad accident,” Greg says.

“I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often,” Mom says. “People drive way too fast on Route 203.”

Skylar looks at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I just hate the sound of all those sirens.”