By eight the following morning, Kade had discovered that patience was considerably more painful than a swollen ankle.
At least the ankle hurt in one place.
Patience attacked his entire personality.
"Stop looking at the door," Tobi said.
"I’m not."
"You’ve checked it fourteen times."
"Thirteen."
"So you’re counting?"
Kade looked away.
Mama Efe entered carrying a tray of supplies.
"Good. You’re both awake."
"We never slept," Tobi replied.
"That explains why you look like an unsuccessful experiment."
Kade smiled.
Mama Efe checked his ankle, pressing gently around the swelling.
"Better than yesterday."
"Then I can leave?"
"Better doesn’t mean healed."
"I can use the walking aid."
"And you can use it to get to the toilet. Congratulations."
Tobi burst out laughing.
Kade stared at the ceiling.
There were monsters in Lagos.
Actual monsters.
Yet somehow, this elderly nurse remained the most terrifying person he’d encountered.
Femi arrived shortly before ten.
He wore a faded football jersey and carried a transparent document folder beneath his arm.
He stopped at the clinic entrance.
"Ah."
Kade looked up.
"What?"
Femi pointed at his bandaged ankle.
"So the rumours are true."
"What rumours?"
"That you fought three armed robbers."
Tobi turned slowly.
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I just started it."
Kade closed his eyes.
"Wonderful."
Femi grinned, then lowered his voice.
"Seriously, though. What happened?"
"Accident," Kade replied.
Femi studied him.
"Must have been a very committed accident."
He placed the folder on the table.
Inside were two photographs and the graduation programme.
Kade reached for the programme first.
The cover had faded.
UNITY SECONDARY SCHOOL — GRADUATION CEREMONY
He remembered that day.
The unbearable heat.
The speeches.
The way Adunni had insisted on ironing his uniform twice.
He opened it carefully.
The handwritten note was tucked between the final pages.
Up close, the writing looked even stranger.
KADE ADEYEMI
MOTHER ATTENDED. NO DIRECT CONTACT.
Beneath it:
17 / 04 / 06 — C
Tobi leaned over his shoulder.
"That’s the code?"
Femi nodded.
"Exactly as I found it."
Kade studied the numbers.
"Could be a date."
"Could be anything," Tobi replied.
Kade nodded.
He wouldn’t force meaning onto it.
Not yet.
"Did you find anything else?"
Femi produced the original photograph.
"Here."
The printed picture was larger than the version on Tobi’s phone.
Not dramatically clearer.
But enough to examine without the worst of the digital blur.
Kade found himself among the students.
Tobi stood beside him.
And near the staff, Mr Akin faced slightly away from the camera.
Kade studied the man’s eyes.
They appeared directed toward the student group.
But not necessarily toward him.
"Well?" Femi asked.
"We can’t tell," Kade admitted.
Tobi leaned closer.
"Maybe he was watching the photographer’s assistant."
"Maybe."
"Or a student behind us."
"Also possible."
Femi looked disappointed.
"You two are terrible detectives."
"We’re trying not to invent evidence," Kade replied.
"That’s why television detectives are more entertaining."
Kade set the photograph aside.
"Femi, where exactly did you find the programme?"
"In an old carton at home."
"Was the note already inside?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember putting it there?"
"No."
"Did anyone else have access to the carton?"
Femi shrugged.
"My parents. My younger brother. Probably half the house."
Kade wrote that down.
The note’s age couldn’t be established simply because the programme was old.
Someone might have inserted it recently.
Either possibility mattered.
They examined the second photograph.
It showed students gathered outside the administrative block.
Kade was absent.
Tobi appeared near the edge, carrying a plastic bottle.
Behind him stood a woman in a yellow blouse.
Adunni.
Kade’s breath caught.
He hadn’t expected to see her.
She was smiling.
Not the tired smile she’d worn after long days.
A real one.
The kind that made her eyes narrow slightly.
For a moment, the clinic vanished.
He was seventeen again.
Complaining about the heat.
Embarrassed because his mother had insisted on taking photographs in front of everyone.
He remembered telling her to hurry.
He wished he hadn’t.
"That’s your mum," Tobi said quietly.
Kade nodded.
He touched the edge of the photograph.
Femi waited.
Then said, "There’s another reason I brought that one."
Kade looked up.
"What?"
"Look behind her."
Kade examined the picture.
Near the administrative block stood a man in a pale shirt.
His face was partly obscured by another student’s shoulder.
He held a dark folder.
"Who is that?"
"I don’t know."
"Is it Mr Akin?"
"Can’t tell."
Kade studied the image again.
Nothing established the man’s identity.
Nothing connected him to the argument Femi remembered.
But something else caught Kade’s attention.
Adunni’s right hand rested against her handbag.
She was holding a small rectangular object.
Perhaps a phone.
Perhaps a folded card.
The photograph wasn’t clear enough.
He looked at Femi.
"Can I keep copies?"
"Of course."
"And the originals?"
Femi hesitated.
"My parents will kill me if I lose them."
"Then keep them safe."
Femi smiled.
"Finally, a reasonable request."
After Femi left, Kade placed the photograph of Adunni beside his notebook.
Tobi watched him.
"You okay?"
"No."
"Fair."
Kade studied his mother’s face.
"She looks happy."
"She was."
"You remember?"
"She bought us meat pies afterward."
Kade looked up.
"That was graduation day?"
"Yes."
"I thought you bought them."
Tobi snorted.
"With what money?"
Kade smiled faintly.
"Good point."
They sat quietly.
Then Tobi said, "I remember something else."
Kade turned.
"About Mr Akin?"
"No. About your mum."
Tobi leaned back.
"After the ceremony, she asked me whether you’d been sleeping properly."
Kade frowned.
"Why?"
"I told her you stayed up reading sometimes."
"That’s all?"
"She asked whether you ever woke up frightened."
Kade stared at him.
"Did I?"
"Not that I knew."
Tobi shrugged.
"She seemed relieved."
Kade considered that.
His mother had asked Tobi questions about him before.
The afternoon before her disappearance, she’d asked whether he had started seeing things that weren’t there.
Now another memory suggested she’d worried about his sleep years earlier.
He didn’t know why.
And he refused to pretend he did.
"Write it down," he said.
Tobi reached for the notebook.
"Under which column?"
Kade thought.
"Things we need to understand."
"That’s a fourth column."
"We’re expanding."
At midday, Bamidele arrived.
He listened as they explained what they’d learned.
When Kade showed him the handwritten code, the repairman frowned.
"Where did this come from?"
"The graduation programme."
"No."
"Then why the face?"
Bamidele tapped the paper.
"Because people see numbers and immediately assume they’re codes."
Tobi grinned.
"Thank you."
Bamidele continued.
"Could be a date. Could be a file reference. Could be somebody’s shopping list."
Kade looked offended.
"Who writes shopping lists like that?"
"People with very strange shopping habits."
Bamidele handed the programme back.
"Find out whether the school kept staff records."
Kade nodded.
"Mrs Oladipo might know."
"Or the administrative office."
Tobi looked thoughtful.
"Would they release employment information?"
"Probably not to former students," Bamidele admitted.
"Then what?"
"Ask what they’re willing to confirm. Don’t demand confidential records."
Kade added it to the plan.
For once, the next step didn’t involve entering a supernatural building.
Progress.
That evening, Tobi called Mrs Oladipo again.
She remembered the school’s former administrative secretary, a woman named Mrs Adebayo.
"She handled temporary staff paperwork," the retired teacher explained.
"Does she still work there?" Tobi asked.
"No. She retired years ago."
"Do you have her number?"
"I can ask."
"Thank you, ma."
Before ending the call, Mrs Oladipo added something.
"Tell Kade not to let this consume him."
Tobi glanced at his friend.
"Consume him?"
"Searching for answers is important. But people can destroy themselves chasing explanations."
Tobi looked at Kade again.
"I’ll tell him."
Kade didn’t appreciate the irony.
Not even slightly.
Later, when the clinic lights were dimmed, Kade studied the graduation photograph again.
Adunni smiled from the past.
He wondered how many ordinary moments he’d forgotten.
How many conversations he’d dismissed.
How many times she’d worried about him without saying why.
He placed the photograph beside her locked phone.
Then his eyes returned to the handwritten code.
17 / 04 / 06 — C
He tried reading it as a date.
Seventeenth of April.
Sixth month?
Room C?
Nothing fit.
He was about to put it away when Tobi spoke.
"Wait."
Kade looked up.
"What?"
Tobi leaned over the paper.
"Those numbers."
"What about them?"
"Seventeen. Four. Six."
"Yes."
"Remember how our school arranged student files?"
Kade frowned.
"By class?"
"No. By admission register."
Kade stared.
Tobi continued.
"The first number was the year group. Then the class stream. Then the student’s position in the register."
Kade looked at the code again.
"Are you sure?"
"Not completely. But I remember seeing something similar when I went to collect my testimonial."
Kade sat straighter.
"So this could refer to a student record?"
"Maybe."
"Whose?"
Tobi hesitated.
Then shook his head.
"We’d need the register."
Kade looked at the photograph.
At his mother’s smile.
At the man watching the students.
At the handwritten note.
For the first time, they had a possible lead that could be checked against an ordinary document.
Not a monster.
Not a shrine.
Not an anonymous message.
A school register.
Kade closed his notebook.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we find Mrs Adebayo."
Tobi nodded.
"And if the numbers don’t match?"
"Then we cross them off."
Tobi smiled.
"You’re learning."
Kade looked at his injured ankle.
"Apparently, getting thrown out of a building improves critical thinking."
"Don’t recommend it to anyone."
Outside, the last light faded over Lagos.
Kade glanced once more at the photograph.
His mother was smiling.
And somewhere in the records of an ordinary secondary school, there might be an explanation for why someone had written his name down.
Or there might be nothing.
For now, that uncertainty was enough to keep him searching.