“Tests for what exactly?”

“Like, to see if she still has MS. I mean, like a month ago she couldn’t get out of bed, and now she’s bouncing around and modeling again and cooking and carrying heavy boxes.”

Friday night, after Mandy had sent Stuart and Ted away to shop for food, they’d come home to find her hauling a huge, heavy box up the stairs.

“I totally forgot,” Mandy had said, “I signed us up for Grandma’s House!” And then she’d cooked them an incredible meal of salmon shepherd’s pie.

“I mean, I just don’t know if the modeling thing is such a great idea,” Stuart went on. “She’ll be traveling, not eating right, standing up all the time and putting her body in weird positions. I guess what I’m concerned about is, with her condition, and with her already being so exhausted—well, she was exhausted recently—shouldn’t she be resting more? Can you tell me what you recommend?”

He heard the sound of papers rustling and the beep and click and whir of a computer. The doctor cleared his throat.

“I have no record here of Mandy having any existing condition, certainly not MS. She had a sinus infection a year and a half ago. That was the last time I saw her and the last medication I prescribed.”

Ted’s parents had forgotten that the Brooklyn Strategizer had kicked him out. Used to be, Danner from the Strategizer picked him up in the schoolyard with the other boys who went there after school. Now no one picked him up. Now, two afternoons a week, after the nannies and mothers and fathers and grandparents had picked up his schoolmates, Ted messed around in the corners until the air got cold and smelled of fireplaces and the sky turned royal blue. Then he walked home by himself.

Except for today. Today, as he was kicking around in the corners of the schoolyard, foraging in the dried leaves and garbage, he found, amongst other things, a lighter. The lighter was small and green. When he flicked it, a tall flame, taller than he’d expected, rose up and wavered, hot and glorious. The other things he found were a half-full bag of Lay’s potato chips, an unopened pack of watermelon gum, an almost-full water bottle, a pink-and-white polka-dotted lunch bag monogrammed with the name DAKOTA in lime green, and a paper subway map.

Ted sat down cross-legged on the ground, the weight of his full backpack pulling him down. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking. One of the moms had brought her Great Dane puppy into the schoolyard, on the far side by the basketball hoops. Dogs were not allowed, but the three or four kids and one nanny who remained didn’t seem to mind. They pet the dog and talked to its owner. No one noticed Ted.