The location of the sweater

I dreamed my wife and I were in charge of some sort of school. It seemed to be a church basement, but it might have been a Viking hall. Wooden arches overhead, long tables. On one side were adults, who I had to deal with, whereas the other had kids, who my wife oversaw. I remember repeatedly cajoling a somewhat creepy older gentlemen with a grey mustache and an ill-fitting suit, asking that he tell his daughter (granddaughter? charge? the relationship was unclear) to tell us the location of a particular sweater on the kids' side of the room. The man steadfastly, but in such a reluctant way that his defiance was almost humble. More and more forcefully I demanded he find the location of the sweater, and again and again he refused, with a flat, almost inaudible "no." The other adults seemed to pay no mind to this discourse, but I great increasingly frustrated and angry. There was something important in the pockets of the sweater or otherwise folded up within it, something of grave importance, hinging on life and death. And yet he refused, and refused, and refused again.