That day, he was seeing a new doctor, armed with his own research and an email exchange with a man he’d met on Poop4You.com. Connor had seen the man’s screening results and described his stool as ‘pristine’. He’d offered the man two hundred dollars for a donation and he had agreed.

When the phone at my desk rang it shocked me out of my reverie. I’d been eating salad and reading an article in Munitions Journal about recent constraints in the AAM market. ‘Constraints’ meant that one war or another had come to an end. Our shares would rise when another one started.

I picked up the phone. ‘Fiona Tomlinson.’

‘Fiona? Hi, it’s Gaby from Blossomings.’

This was the preposterously named early-learning centre that Samuel attended.

‘Hello,’ I said. I looked at my half-eaten salad and Munitions Journal wistfully.

‘I’m sorry if this is a bad time. It’s just that – well, we have something of a situation.’

‘I’ve told you before, Samuel’s not really allergic to bananas, no matter what he says. He’s just scared of them.’

‘It’s not bananas.’

‘His sunglasses should be in his bag, if it’s the light thing again.’

‘No, it’s not his photosensitivity. There’s been an incident with one of our other pupils.’

This got my attention. ‘Oh?’

‘I mean, Samuel’s okay, he’s fine, he’s just —’

I let the journal fall closed. ‘Just what?’

‘I think he should go home for the day. Could you come and collect him?’

‘Did someone hurt my son?’

‘Mrs Tomlinson —’

‘Dr Tomlinson.’

There was a fractional pause.

‘Doctor Tomlinson. I understand that you might find this an upsetting situation, but I’m here to assure you that at Blossomings, we —’

I hung up and grabbed my keys.

‘It’s my son,’ I said to Roger on the way out. ‘He needs to be picked up from day care. Something’s happened.’

‘Oh God,’ said Roger. I started to walk away and my boss’s voice followed me down the corridor. ‘Did he keep his pants on?’

Blossomings was painted in muted shades that recalled nature: greens and browns, occasional bursts of autumnal orange. It was designed to be calming. Theirs was an ‘expansive’ style of education – like a Steiner school, but without the insanity. They let the children play with paint and pipe cleaners, but also introduced them to a few words in Mandarin and taught them to mash their little fists on electric pianos. It was ludicrously expensive, of course, but we were at the point where this gave us relief rather than anxiety; it was good to think that Samuel was surrounded by people who would be influential in the future. He was going to need all the help he could get.