Later that same morning, Teddy’s kindergarten class made a presentation for the parents. For six weeks they had been studying space. Teddy had learned a great deal. The sun is hot. Jupiter has a red spot. The M planets are Mercury and Mars.

He told me all this and more as we stood next to his three-foot-by-five-foot space mural. He’d painted a piece of the sun in an upper corner; he’d cut out planets of various sizes and glued a gold and purple glitter ring around Saturn; he’d painted in comets and asteroids, and we’d taken his picture and his teacher had taken our picture, all of us proud. I gushed about the planets that he’d stuck on in no particular order—or, to be scientific about it, an order understood by him alone.

I smothered him with praise: “Oh, Teddy, that’s beeeeaaaauuuutiful.” “I love the colors.” “You did this by yourself!” “Look, Sam, at what Teddy made. He made the galaxy!”

I noticed the time. “Okay, Mommy has to work.” I gave both Teddy and Sam hugs. “Bye, boys. Mommy loves you.”

“Can’t you stay longer?” Tim asked.

“No,” I said as I hugged him.

He looked rattled. “Do you know what you just did?”

“What?”

“You patted me.”

“I did?”

“You patted the back of my shoulder while we hugged. Don’t you realize what that means?”

“Stop it, Tim. All it means is I’m going to be late.” Backing away, I blew kisses to the boys, and then I turned and was gone.

When I got to work, two messages had already been left on my voice mail. Both were from my new reporter friend at The Wall Street Journal. The first message had been left at the ungodly hour of 5:57 A.M. It went: “It’s Lacey, calling from home. I’m ready to get started. Are you?” The second message came at 9:05 AM. “It’s Lacey Windsor.” She sounded serious. “I’m at my office. Did you see the paper?”

I hung up my coat, replaced my shoes with my fuzzy slippers, pulled out Lacey’s business card, and dialed her work number. She answered her own phone. I said, “In answer to your questions: Yes, I’m ready to get started. And second, I haven’t seen any newspaper of any kind.”

“Oh,” she said.

“You see, my older son’s kindergarten class gave a presentation on outer space. They even baked these moon cookies.” I heard the sound of Bruno sitting down in my big squishy office chair. “My boss is here. Can I call you right back?” I hung up and turned toward Bruno.

“Outer space,” he said, trying to smile. “That sounds promising.”

Bruno looked pale, ghostlike. His baggy, brightly colored clothes could no longer hide the fact that he was now mostly bones and skin. His eyes seemed twice their healthy size. He needed cheering up.