Cuthbert raps sharply on the door with his knuckles. "Susan? It's 'Bert and Caspian. We're coming in," he warns, and opens the door without waiting for a response.

The room is empty. Joanie's pen is cleaned and stands unused and silent, as though the little elephant had never been there. Susan's bed, however, is untidy and unmade, and her closet stands ajar.

Beside the door, a pair of gloves has fallen unheeded to the floor beneath the winter scarf that hangs forgotten on its peg. Her coat is missing.