“Come in,” he says, and I step into the room. I’m glad we aren’t in the narrow hallway again. I can still feel the echo of his touch under my chin and down my arms.

That was a strange night. It must have been some culmination of our fear for Paige. Or maybe it was because of the scratches on my hands which have begun to heal in uneven scabs.

It’s not something that will ever happen again, basically.

I’m carrying some of Paige’s unfinished schoolwork. He nods toward one of the armchairs in front of his desk, and I sit down. With the large slab of wood between us, this feels much more like an interview than the night with the kitten.

“The good news is that I’m getting along great with Paige. She’s even started wearing pants and a hoodie when we go outside to collect rocks. But with schoolwork, we really aren’t getting very far. She completely shuts down if I even mention it.”

He leans back in his chair. His eyes reflect the lamp, the room, even me—they share nothing of what he’s thinking. Of course, I can assume it isn’t good. “It’s part of your job to make sure she does her schoolwork, is it not?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing hard.

I’m sitting here with a stack proving my failure right now. Half an inch thick of worksheets and maps and graphs empty of a six-year-old’s scribbles.

I just don’t know what to do. This wasn’t covered in the first aid training the Bassett Agency paid for me to take. I never had to do virtual learning with my foster siblings. Even in their most angry phases, I only had to get them onto the bus. It was the school’s issue from that point on.

I’ve become the bus driver, teacher, and principal all at once.

My voice is wavery as I attempt a defense. “I don’t know if this could have been avoided. Maybe it’s part of her grieving process, but I would like to point out that there are months of incomplete work. This wasn’t something new that happened when I arrived.”

He gives me a sardonic glance. “Yes, it turns out she did not quite appreciate my teaching style. All the students who took my seminar at Yale surely agree with her. That’s why I hired you. To teach her in a way that works for her.”

“I don’t think this is an issue of teaching style. She refuses to even talk about school.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You put the work in front of her, and she does it.”

I shake my head helplessly. “She doesn’t.”

“Are you asking for my permission to beat her? Permission granted, I think. A few hard straps of leather, and she’d change her tune.”