But the feeling of goodwill lasted only a minute; on the walk back, there was that scent of cigarette smoke again. Andrea’s gaze darted into the woods once more . . . but again, nothing. A chill wriggled down her back. There were so many unknowns. So many people they couldn’t trust. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was close, watching.

Piper

May

The same sun is out, but you are chilled to the bone. You sit on the back of your beautiful car and stare at your empty school building. It’s a Saturday. You’re going through the ledgers. Admissions are down for next year. Way down—some parents have even pulled their kids out of school for the final month of this year, demanding some of their fees back, saying that in this economy, no one should be expected to pay what you’re asking. And for next year, people seem to be looking elsewhere, too.

Who could have predicted an economic crash? And there you were only months ago, thinking that a school was something that could weather any storm—people always need to educate their children, after all. Parents go all out when it comes to schooling, especially if it’s touted as the best.

How foolish you’d been to think life would never change. How careless you’d been not to put certain protective measures in place. But now, here you are, looking at your balance sheets. What had looked so promising months ago now downright terrifies you. It’s amazing how you thought you had enough cushion to start a second school up the coast. Now, your worries are more pressing . . . and much more down-to-earth.

“We could look for angel investors,” Carson suggests.

You sigh. “We’ve exhausted those options. They don’t get it. We’re a preschool. We shouldn’t have to need additional funding.”

“And I’m assuming you’ve already applied for the small-business loan?”

You give him a withering look. Of course you’ve applied for the small-business loan. And you received the small-business loan. And you’ve already blown through the small-business loan.

“Okay.” Carson brushes his hands together. “We’re going to think of something. Really.”

If only you had some of Carson’s optimism. And to think you almost hadn’t hired him. You’d thought it strange when he applied to the position—a young, possibly gay man in his twenties, no children, with a bachelor’s in art history? Then he’d said that he wasn’t really interested in the kids, but he totally “got” moms. “I think I’m a mommy blogger in a pudgy twentysomething guy’s body,” he admitted. “Is that weird? I just know what gets them going. I think I could inspire everyone. Get everyone inspired in us.” Then he’d waved his hand. “But you probably want someone more qualified. I get it.”