“Adjustments?” Ruth says. She clenches her jaw. “Please, Mrs. Mason, listen to me. You know Isabelle. You know how she is. What if she were to get over this, whatever this is, and were ready to return to school? Imagine how poorly she’d do if she had to negotiate an entirely new and different institution. Imagine how poorly she’d do even if she returned here, but hadn’t been allowed to keep up with the work, if she had to repeat a year, meet new students.”

Mrs. Mason puts her hands to her lips and sighs. “Mrs. Carter,” she says.

“Mrs. Mason.” Ruth’s voice is quiet now. The tremble in it makes her blush. She hates to beg, but they are talking about her daughter. She is frightened for her daughter, frightened at the thought of the school pulling away. “Please,” she says. She looks Mrs. Mason hard in the eye.

“Can you give me an honest estimate of how long this might take? Of how long it will be before Isabelle would return? I’ve seen copies of the last few doctors’ reports, and it doesn’t seem promising.”

Ruth opens her mouth to speak. She wants to tell Mrs. Mason that it should be any day now, that Isabelle will be talking again, that she is making progress, that she is on the mend. This is what she’s been telling herself these past nine months, but suddenly these words, even as they sit on the tip of Ruth’s tongue, ring hollow and meaningless. She drops her hands into her lap and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I cannot give you an honest answer.”

“Mrs. Carter, I understand how difficult this must be for you. But at this point I am going to have to say that unless Isabelle can physically return to school—speaking—in January, she cannot enroll at all.”

“But—”