In the middle of the office, two identical midcentury desks faced each other. I identified Amelia’s desk because her burgundy silk scarf lay draped over the chair, then I examined each stack of papers and folders, which were clearly labeled and held together with rubber bands. She was almost as organized as I was. Only a few Post-its with handwritten notes marred the perfectly organized work space. On one such piece of paper were the words cello teacher and a phone number. I picked up another piece of paper, which read Jenny Douglas, then a phone number, then the words due date July 10. I wasn’t able to remember even one time that I’d focused on a pregnant woman’s due date to the degree that I would actually write it down. On a third piece of paper, the words birth mothers were followed by three names. Perhaps the Straubs were looking to adopt. My pulse quickened.

After returning each paper to its original location, I sat down at Fritz’s desk. His labeling system wasn’t as consistent as Amelia’s, but his handwriting had more to offer than hers did. (I’d read several books about handwriting over the years and had tested my knowledge by comparing acquaintances’ handwriting with their behavior, to see if the two were aligned.) Fritz’s narrow L loops indicated tension, probably in his marriage. Perhaps he was disappointed in his wife’s inability to carry another child. The loose placement of his i dots led me to believe he had an extraordinary imagination. Thoughts of Fritz made my body tingle.

At ten thirty, I went up to the third floor to check on Natalie, and brought my digital Canon EOS with me. The bathroom and closet lights shone into the room and I could easily make out her face, even though my eyes were adjusting. She was sound asleep, but her hand was still clutching her stuffed unicorn. I pulled her thin cotton blanket up over her and sat down on the edge of her bed to observe her. Holding my fingers inches from her nose and mouth, I felt her warm breath.

When I look at someone through the viewfinder of my camera, I can see what lies below the surface. I studied Natalie and captured several images of her sleeping—a gift for her parents at some point, maybe. Natalie’s chest moved up and down, almost imperceptibly. Her face appeared thin and fragile, as did her body. She reminded me of myself at that age. She took refuge in her imagination. Children with hyperactive imaginations are usually running away from something, escaping from something. Some children don’t have imaginations because they don’t need them.