Sister Mary Agnes calls me in during lunch. I sit in the creepy chair next to her desk, the low one that makes you feel like a little kid.
“Bring the rest of your lunch,” she tells me, but I throw it away when I follow her inside.
She takes a bite of her peanut butter sandwich, sets it down on a paper towel then twists the cap off her thermos and pours water into it. After a sip, she asks if Dad has died.
“No, ma’am,” I say.
“He moved, didn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grown-ups ask questions they already have answers for.