Even though I still can’t see him, I know that Teddy is horrified at the mention of his name, which is not even really his name, since Vogel is my last name, and Teddy’s last name is Flynn, Gary’s last name, but the school, irrepressibly progressive, insists on allowing teachers to call children by the mother’s surname instead of the father’s, even if the names aren’t hyphenated, whenever they want to. I can feel myself start to bristle—a school should call a child by their given name, not a politically correct interpretation of what their name could be, right?—when I realize Mr. Noah is coming to the end of his brief parent-intro and that in seconds it will be time for me to get up and speak. I pull out my old dog-eared copy of Bird from my bag, the one I used to read from when I still did readings, and pick a few pieces of stray dog hair from my sweater.

“. . . so here’s Judy Vogel to tell us all about writing children’s books!”

I hug the sling as Mr. Noah waves at me to come forward, out of the shadows. When I’m standing next to him, I realize that he is indeed wearing a bib—made from terry cloth, with a little lamb on it. Maybe he wears one first thing in the morning with the preschoolers? He points at the sling.

“Teddy didn’t mention there was a new baby!”

“There isn’t.” I finally find Teddy in the crowd, and as soon as I do I almost wish I hadn’t. His face has crumpled into misery. “It’s a dog,” I whisper.

“A dog-baby! How adorkable is that?” he coos, and just as I’m about to start nervous-talking about the dog and how much I love wearing her and how she’s helped get me through a difficult time, I watch Teddy sink into the crowd and disappear, like he’s fallen backward into a dark lake that has swallowed him up whole. I want more than anything to find him and apologize for embarrassing him, but instead I pull something else out of my bag: a Bird on Your Head knit Peruvian-style hat that was part of the official promotional merchandise for the book and animated television series. I take a deep breath and put the hat on over my hair, tucking the long strands behind my ears and letting the multicolor yarn ties fall straight along the sides of my face. Then I step forward to start my presentation.

That’s when the doors to the all-purpose room fling open and a teacher runs into the crowd. Her hands form a frantic T—for time-out. “We need you upstairs right away, Mr. Noah!” she yells in a panicked screech. “It happened again!”

Mr. Noah turns and stares at her across the sea of student bodies. His mouth drops open into a horrified O. “Again??” he says, before chasing her through the crowd and out the doors toward the middle school, his crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the polished wood floor as he flees.