When a girl in third grade stopped coming to school, we said she moved to Antarctica, or a witch turned her into a bird, or she swallowed too big of a marble and died. Eventually we killed her. She went home in a whale. She’s singing outside the window. She kissed open a marble with an animal trapped inside, went silver as a spell. Maybe some of us already knew about what disappeared and never returned. Like when I could never find a photograph that fell behind my desk, not even when I moved every piece of furniture out from the wall. If the world made sense, there would be some trace: a black rectangle on the floor, deleted air, ink veining up the wall. A girl’s name. The name for all such girls gathered into the wall, into the floor, into the still places beyond knowing.