Mr. Okafor arrived at the retirement party seventeen minutes late, which for him was a kind of announcement. For thirty-one years he had been the first car in the school lot, headlights sweeping the empty asphalt before the custodians unlocked the doors. The other teachers used to joke that he slept in his classroom. Tonight he lingered by the coat rack, turning his hat in his hands, while the principal read aloud the customary tributes. When his name drew applause, he nodded once, the way he nodded at students who answered correctly—acknowledgment without warmth. Later, cornered near the punch bowl, he was asked what he would do with all his free time. He said he intended to learn the cello. A younger colleague laughed, assuming a joke; Mr. Okafor did not laugh back. He explained that he had wanted to play since he was nine, but there had always been papers to grade, always another student who needed the hour more than he did. He said this without bitterness, as a man reciting an old arithmetic he had long since accepted. Then he set down his cup, still full, and asked whether anyone would mind if he left early.