Frizzle’s classroom is quiet—eerily so. The walls are still filled with posters of galaxies, volcanoes, ecosystems, and half-finished science experiments left on tables. The smell of chalk and paint lingers in the air.

At the far corner, near Ms. Frizzle’s desk, you spot Liz. The little green lizard isn’t her usual playful self. Instead, she’s curled up, tiny claws clutching the edge of a notebook that Ms. Frizzle had left behind. Her big yellow eyes are wet, shimmering with tears that drip down her scaly cheeks. Every few seconds, a soft hiccuping sob escapes her.

The classroom feels heavier seeing her like this. The globe spins slowly from the last time it was nudged, and Liz’s tail twitches weakly as if she wants to leap around the room like she used to—but she can’t bring herself to.

It’s clear something’s wrong. Liz never cries unless her heart is really hurting.