You push through the red door to the classrooms. Inside, there’s the pleasant hum of classes in session. The air smells like paste and nontoxic paint; the music teacher is playing melody bells several doors down. You turn to the line of nursery cubbies, inspecting the tiny baby jackets and sweaters hung on the hooks outside the room. Each child’s name has been painted above their hook; there’s also a cubby above for larger items, like toys or diapers. After a few moments, you find her child—Matthew Smith. His backpack is in the shape of a cheerful raccoon. You touch its edges, feeling that awful ache again. Through the years, you’ve become more desensitized to being around little kids, especially babies, focusing only on what you need to do for them as their school’s director. But it’s the kind of backpack you would have gotten for North, had he lived.

After the note has been delivered, you feel restless, antsy. So you poke your head into the other classrooms. In the twos, the teachers are helping toddlers pretend-play with fake wooden food. You bite your lip, remembering how you imagined that you and North did the same thing. In the threes, the kids are making a craft with glue, glitter, and feathers. How many crafts did you make “for” North and hang on your refrigerator?

The fours are listening to the music teacher playing the melody bells; you spy Andrea’s and Ronnie’s children sitting politely and suddenly feel a pang of regret for what you’d asked Carson to do. Not that those parents aren’t a liability, but the kids look so innocent and vulnerable—and also rapturous. You picture their small faces when their mothers tell them they’re no longer attending this place. They’ll be okay, you know—it’s amazing how resilient kids are. But at the same time, you hate that you see this heartbreak up ahead for them. You hate that you know it’s coming and you are the cause.

Unless there is something you could do to stop it. Somehow, Graham’s presence is putting everything in perspective. It’s not about being the best here—it’s about doing what’s right and good.

All at once, you want to get back to your office again and make a plan. How much do those women know? Where is Flora, exactly? Is there a way to dig yourself out of this without ruining anyone else’s life?