Dr. Steingold clears his throat and flattens his lips sympathetically. He grunts, tapping his pen against his mouth.

Ruth sighs. Her shoulders feel heavy. She is tired. She listens to Dr. Steingold flipping again through papers and focuses on the wall hangings behind him. There are a number of diplomas and framed awards of merit; there is a painting of a pear against a blue background that might be a cloudless sky; there is a black-and-white photograph of the doctor as a very young man in front of a low, thatch-roofed hut, the dust from the ground swirling in the wind around his feet.

Africa.

Ruth sits up suddenly and reaches for her purse. She rifles through it for Isabelle’s drawing, the one she promised Wilson she would show the shrink. Maybe, she thinks, maybe Wilson is right. “Doctor,” she says.

Dr. Steingold looks up with an expression of surprise at the new, hopeful tone in Ruth’s voice. Ruth holds the picture out for the doctor to see. He takes it from her and looks at it.

“Interesting,” he says. He looks up. “Isabelle did this?”

“Yes,” Ruth says. “Just last weekend. Do you think it means anything?”

“Art is always an important method of communication. And in this case it is even more important, since we don’t have the benefit of spoken communication.”

“And do you think she’s trying to communicate something?”

“Whether consciously or not, certainly there is meaning in everything we make.” He refolds the drawing and hands it out to Ruth.

“Wouldn’t you like to keep it, then? Study it, or whatever?”

Dr. Steingold breathes out through his nose and retracts his hand. He tucks the drawing into Isabelle’s file. “Mrs. Carter,” he says, and he looks her in the eye. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this. You wait.”

Dr. Steingold has told her that he understands that she will not speak; instead, he has presented her with a series of puzzles, some consisting of as few as six pieces.

“My,” he says, as Isabelle completes a fifteen-piece puzzle of a clown. “You’re quick. You’ve got a good mind for puzzles.” Isabelle watches as he jots something down in his notebook. He looks up at her with an earnest expression that makes Isabelle uncomfortable, somehow, because this man is trying, she understands, yet he is so very far off track. Being in the room with him is like watching a blindfolded person trying to pin the tail on the donkey and pinning it to the wall three feet away instead. “Isabelle,” he finally says, tapping his pen to his lips. He crosses his legs. “I want you to look at the puzzle you’ve just completed. Look at it carefully.”

Isabelle looks at the clown in the puzzle. He is sitting on a milk crate, and his shoes are red and long. His pants are blue-and-white striped, held high by yellow suspenders, and there is a wilted pink flower tucked into the brim of his hat. His chin rests in his gloved hand, and his mouth is painted into a frown. He looks tired.