The snow has made many students late today; the subways are running slow and the traffic is thick. Ruth watches the latecomers hurry inside, stamping slush from their boots and peeling off the leg warmers they’ve worn beneath their uniform skirts. The receptionist tells them to sign in at the front desk; they are late and have missed roll call in their homerooms. The girls unbutton their jackets and pull off their hats; their faces are red and wet. They talk about the snow as they pass through the lobby, about sledding the day before, about how long their subway sat stalled in the tunnel, about their math test today. They compare the weights of their backpacks and discuss today’s cafeteria lunch, which is pizza. They talk about some new movie that Ruth has never heard of.

Her own daughter is warm and dry and quiet, probably where Ruth left her after they’d finished breakfast, at the kitchen table at work on a drawing in her sketchbook. This one she didn’t shield from her parents; when Ruth peered over her shoulder, exaggeratedly so as to make clear that she wasn’t trying to sneak a look, Isabelle moved her arm away and pushed the sketchbook forward. Taped to the top corner was a small photograph of Maggie, the same image being slowly realized in pencil on the page beneath. “That’s great, Isabelle,” Ruth had said, and she meant it. “Wil, take a look at Isabelle’s drawing.” Wilson turned from the sink where he’d been rinsing off their breakfast dishes. He stood and stared at their daughter’s drawing. Ruth thought she saw a pained look flash across his face. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Wilson paused. “It’s remarkable, Isabelle,” he said.

Now, in the school lobby, Ruth looks up at the sound of her name. The receptionist is looking toward her. “Mrs. Mason is ready to see you.”

“Thank you,” Ruth says, and she ascends the flight of stairs to Mrs. Mason’s office.

“Mrs. Carter,” Mrs. Mason says. “Good morning.”

“Hello,” Ruth says. She takes a seat across from Mrs. Mason at her desk. The desk is wooden and wide; it separates the women by four feet at least, Ruth thinks. She takes Isabelle’s finished assignments from her bag and piles them neatly on the desk before her.

“Coffee? Tea?” Mrs. Mason asks.