“Oh, Arnold.” It was Arnold’s mom. She was over six feet tall and was wearing a knee brace. She sighed. “Clumsiness runs in the family.”

Peaches went over and patted Arnold’s shoulder. He was unresponsive. “It’s all right. We enjoy hanging out.”

Arnold’s mom nodded, one skinny eyebrow raised. “Sometimes I think he does it on purpose, just to see you,” she said in a loud whisper, shooting a glance at the back of Stuart’s head.

Get in line, Arnold, Stuart thought. She’s mine.

“Well, that would be sweet,” Peaches said. “But I think he’s just a bruiser. I’ve seen it before. My son was like that in elementary school. He grew so big so fast he had no idea how hard he’d fall or even where his feet were. I thought he’d wind up playing ice hockey or lacrosse. Instead he’s this six-foot, seventeen-year-old math nerd who barely goes outside.”

Nurse Peaches has a teenage son? Stuart stared fixedly at the yellow thumbtack holding up her calendar. The month of September featured a depressed-looking bulldog wearing a red tutu.

“I don’t know how you can possibly have a son in high school—you’re only twenty-five,” Arnold’s mom said. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other though.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to…” She glanced at the back of Stuart’s head once more.

“Come on, sweetness.”

She frowned at Arnold’s still form.

“He doesn’t have a concussion again, does he? Liquid diet with a concussion. That’s what our doctor recommends. Chewing and crunching stress the brain.”

Arnold sat up. “I hurt my hands and knees, not my brain,” he protested. “Solid food, please, I’m starving.”

Arnold’s mom clapped her hands together. “He’s alive! Hurry up and get your shoe on. We’ll go to the butcher and pick up some steaks on our way home.”

As soon as they were gone, Peaches spun Stuart around in his chair. He loved it in her office. He’d gone into a sort of restful meditative state, listening to the distant clanking of the cafeteria staff and the rhythmic footfalls of children on the stairs. He could have stayed there all afternoon.

“I think Arnold’s mom is right. They hurt themselves on purpose,” he said, staring straight ahead at Peaches’ pale clavicle.

It wasn’t pale for long. “Ha,” she murmured. A hot, red blush crept up her neck to her face. She was going to molest him. It would be all over the news and she would go to jail. “Now, where were we?”

“Lice check,” Stuart reminded her.

She reached out and ran her fingers through his wavy dark hair, forgetting herself for a moment. “Lice check,” she repeated crazily, and then squatted down to open a filing cabinet and retrieve a comb.