“What do you mean you were questioned?”

“They asked each of us if we were the Pooper.”

“Flat out. Like, straight out. As in, ‘Are you the one who pooped on the floor on purpose?’” Teddy nods. “And when you said no, what happened?”

“They asked us if we had seen anything weird, if we had any idea who was doing it.”

“And had you seen anything weird?”

“No.”

“So as far as you know, some kid has somehow managed to drop their pants,” I say, mindfully using a gender-neutral pronoun, “and poop instantaneously—and very very quickly—leaving the scene before anyone sees them.”

When he shrugs, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t buy it.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Of course I believe you. I’m just not sure I believe that it’s happening the way it seems.” Instead of explaining what I mean—I’m not even sure I know what I mean beyond having a nagging suspicion that something about this story isn’t making sense. How does someone, outside a full classroom the first time, and down the hall from an entire schoolful of people gathered for an assembly the second time, poop on the floor that quickly—on command, essentially—without being seen? I focus on the fact that this secret pooper has been on the loose at the school for almost a week and no one has notified the parents. Which is maddening and strange, since the school usually finds any and every excuse to communicate operational minutiae to parents via email and voicemail (“Please note: the refrigerator in the teachers’ room is being replaced this week with one that has a bigger capacity but a much higher energy-efficiency rating!” “New entrance mats for foot-wiping have now been installed! Children from homes that still use commercial salt and sand mixtures [and who should really switch to environmentally friendly nontoxic compounds . . .] please wipe well before entering the school!”) So why the sudden radio silence, now that one of the middle-schoolers is a probable sociopath?

“The bottom line is that the school should have told the parents.”

“But I told you.”

“But you’re a kid.”

“But now you know. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, but what also matters is that the adults do the right thing.” Finally past the giant addition, weaving around the usual mess of tow trucks and backhoes and pool diggers—Pool diggers? In Cambridge?—but there’s no time for house ogling today. “They’re the grown-ups. They’re supposed to tell us about any kind of dangerous situation.”

“Dangerous? It’s just poop.”

I can see a flash of fear in Teddy’s eyes, even under the hair that crosses his nose, how he starts to fidget with the zipper on his hooded sweatshirt. Great. I’ve leaked my fear and distrust of life and sparked his, just like my parents did to me. Have I learned nothing about how to pretend I have faith and hope in humanity so that I don’t incite and escalate my child’s imagination about all the dormant evil lurking in the world? “You’re right,” I say, trying for a calming clinical tone. “I’m being ridiculous. It is just poop.” And then, of course, because I can’t help myself, I add: “But sometimes disturbing behavior is a symptom of something else.”