She told him on a Tuesday. She had walked across the quad with the syllabus still in her bag, and she had not opened the classroom door. Instead she went to his office and knocked.
"Have a minute?" she said.
He waved her in. He cleared the chair of papers and set them on the floor.
"I need to take leave," she said. "Starting today. I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry."
He nodded. He did not ask why. He waited a moment, in case she wanted to say more, and when she did not, he said, "Of course. What do you need from me?"
"A coverage plan for Modern Lit. I'll send a list of who could pick up the last weeks. I don't think I can —" She stopped. She did not have the rest of the sentence.
"That's fine. I'll handle it."
She looked at the window behind him. A maple was turning. She could not remember if it had been turning yesterday.
"How long?" he said. Then: "Sorry — you don't have to know that yet."
"I don't know yet."
"That's fine."
He stood up to walk her to the door. At the door he paused. He looked like he was going to ask something else, and then he didn't. He said, "Take the time. We'll be here."
She nodded. She did not cry until she got back to her car, and even then it was only a little, and not about anything in particular. The maple had been turning all week. She had walked past it on Monday and noticed nothing.