"Good morning," she begins, and falters.

"Is my daughter in class this morning?" Dottie makes a polite cluck of impatience. "To whom am I speaking, please?" It takes her a moment to remember her own name.

"Marilyn. Marilyn Lee. My daughter is Lydia Lee. Tenth grade." "Let me look up her schedule. First period-" A?pause.

"Eleventh-grade physics?" " Yes, that's right. With Mr. Kelly." "I'll have someone run down to that classroom and check." There's a thud as the secretary sets the receiver down on the desk.

Marilyn studies her mug, the pool of water it has made on the counter.

A few years ago, a little girl had crawled into a storage shed and suffocated.

After that the police department sent a flyer to every house: If your child is missing, look for him right away.

Check washing machines and clothes dryers, automobile trunks, toolsheds, any places he might have crawled to hide.

Call police immediately if your child cannot be found.

"Mrs. Lee?" the secretary says. "Your daughter was not in her first-period class. Are you calling to excuse her absence?" Marilyn hangs up without replying. She replaces the phone number on the board, her damp fingers smudging the ink so that the digits blur as if in a strong wind, or underwater.