Lynn grades Caleb's paper. She gives him a C-plus. His work is B-minus. She knows this while she's doing it. She does it with the same hand she uses to grade everyone else. The pen doesn't feel different. The paper doesn't feel different. She doesn't pause. She doesn't enjoy it. She does it the way you scratch an itch — the body wants it, the mind doesn't participate, and afterward you couldn't say exactly when it happened.
He brings her an apple on Mondays. She puts it on her desk. It browns. She throws it away on Wednesday or Thursday. She doesn't think about why he brings them. She doesn't think about him when he isn't in her classroom. He's ten. He stands up when he answers questions. When he doesn't know the answer he says “I'm not sure, Mrs. Barlow.” He says it every time. The same words. She has heard it probably two hundred times. It doesn't make her feel anything anymore. It used to make her feel something — a heat, a constriction — but the feeling wore away and what's left is the habit. She calls on him. He stands up. He doesn't know. She moves on.
His mother works nights. Lynn knows this because the mother mentioned it at conferences, not complaining, just explaining why she sometimes didn't sign the reading log. The mother's name is Daniela. Lynn doesn't think about Daniela either.
The year ends. Caleb moves to fifth grade. A new class comes in. There is no new Caleb. There's never been a previous Caleb. She doesn't replace him. The slot closes. In September she is the same teacher she was in August, minus one small habit that no longer has an object.
She retires seven years later. At her retirement party, a former student — not Caleb — gives a speech about how Mrs. Barlow changed her life. Lynn cries. The tears are real.