The school office was colder than it needed to be.
Vince stood near the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, while the secretary dug through a drawer that groaned every time she pulled it open. Papers slid. Something metal clinked. She muttered under her breath, not at him, just at the drawer itself.
"You said spring?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Which spring?"
"Six years ago."
She stopped moving. Looked up at him like he'd asked something rude.
"That's a lot of paper."
"I don't need all of it," Vince said. "Just attendance."
She made a noise that could have meant anything and went back to searching.
The clock ticked. Too loud. Or maybe he was just listening harder than usual.
She finally laid a folder on the counter. Didn't push it toward him. Just let it sit there between them.
"Everything we have is in there."
Vince opened it.
Names. Dates. Columns filled in carefully. The kind of careful that came from routine, not care.
Tommy was there.
Then he wasn't.
No note. No explanation. Just a blank where a name should have continued.
"Did he transfer?" Vince asked.
She shrugged without looking. "Some kids don't finish."
"That wasn't my question."
She glanced at the folder, then at the clock. "If there was a transfer, it'd be marked."
"But it isn't."
Another shrug. This one sharper. "Then I guess there wasn't."
Vince closed the folder. He didn't argue. He thanked her and left, because staying would've turned it into something else, and he didn't know what yet.
The hallway smelled faintly of wax and old books. Lockers lined the walls, most of them dented, a few with names scratched into the paint. He walked past a classroom where a chair had been left crooked, like someone had stood up quickly and never come back.
Outside, the air felt thicker than before.
At the clinic, Claire wasn't at the desk when he walked in. He waited, flipping through an outdated magazine without reading it. When she came out, she looked tired.
"You're early," she said.
"I might be late," Vince replied. "Depends how you look at it."
She frowned. "What do you need?"
"Old intake records."
Her frown deepened. "Why?"
"Because I can't find something."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and disappeared down the hall. When she came back, she carried a thin folder and a thicker look of concern.
"This isn't right," she said, tapping the pages. "There's a break here."
"How big?"
"A few weeks." She hesitated. "It shouldn't be blank."
"Is it ever blank?"
"No."
"Who handles these?"
She shook her head slowly. "Not one person."
That was the problem.
At Harold Penn's garage, the radio was on low, some old song crackling through bad reception. Harold didn't turn it off when Vince walked in.
"You're wearing a path in the pavement," Harold said.
"Just trying to keep warm," Vince said.
Harold snorted and went back to tightening something under a hood.
Vince leaned against a workbench, eyes drifting to the service logs clipped nearby. Grease fingerprints smeared the edges.
"Mind?" Vince asked.
Harold didn't answer. That was close enough.
Same weeks. Same gap.
"You didn't work then?" Vince asked.
Harold straightened, rolled his shoulders. "I worked."
"Then why isn't it written?"
Harold wiped his hands. Took longer than necessary. "Guess I didn't feel like writing."
"For weeks?"
He looked at Vince then. "You ever get tired of remembering things?"
Vince didn't respond.
At the bakery, Rose Hill slid him a coffee without asking. Didn't say anything else. Let him drink half of it before she spoke.
"You're chasing holes," she said.
"I'm finding the same ones."
She nodded once. "That happens."
"Why?" Vince asked.
Rose leaned her elbows on the counter. "Because everyone remembers just enough."
"Enough for what?"
"For getting through the day."
Back at the station, Mercer didn't pretend to be surprised.
"You're poking around places that don't concern you," the chief said.
"Tommy concerns me."
Mercer rubbed his face. "You think we hurt him."
"No," Vince said. "I think you helped him disappear."
"That's a hell of an accusation."
Vince shrugged. "You're the one with missing weeks."
Mercer's voice dropped. "Careful."
"People keep telling me that."
That night, Vince didn't spread his notes out neatly. He left them scattered. Dates overlapping. Names half-covered.
Same weeks.
Same silence.
Outside, someone laughed. Somewhere down the street. It sounded normal. That bothered him more than anything else.
Greyford wasn't empty.
It was just very good at pretending nothing had been left behind.