She felt odd standing there, like some sort of spy—or what, music critic? What did it matter to her what sort of music Nancy or any of the other kids listened to? Suddenly, she felt a wave of exhaustion roll over her. She’d put in a long day and she’d have to be up in five and a half hours to fix the kids’ breakfast, the whole mob of them, because the three mothers were rotating breakfast duties and tomorrow was her day on. She wanted to just turn around and go back up to bed—Corey was fine, she was sure of it, and it was time she stopped fussing over him; if he’d fallen asleep somewhere, even in one of the spare rooms, what difference did it make? Still, she was there, and in the next moment she moved to Tommy’s door and eased it open. It was dark, darker inside than in the hallway, which was lit by a single lamp on a table at the far end, but after a moment—a moment in which the cat, or another just like it, slipped between her legs and into the depths of the room—she could make out the sleeping forms of Tommy and Bobby in their twin beds and saw that there was no one else there, no one stretched out on the floor or slumped over in the armchair. She pulled the door closed, but then thought better of it and left it open a crack for the convenience of the cat.

The Beatles. Love me do, they sang in a buzz of tiny chirping voices. She couldn’t explain what she did next because it wasn’t right and it wasn’t like her to snoop, but on an impulse, she checked Nancy’s door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. Very gently, wincing against the faintest protest of the hinges, she cracked open the door and peered inside. What she saw were four walls decorated with drawings and art posters, a bed, an armchair and a night table with a record player on it, the whole illuminated by a single night-light in the far corner. There were two heads buried in the pillow, the heads of two children—adolescents—and both of them were asleep. The record ended in a scratch of static, then there was the clunk of the mechanical arm cueing it up again—and again, once again and endlessly, the Beatles were singing. Love, love me do.