Maybe he was flawed or selfish or low on faith. Or maybe, like his friends told him, he was simply human. Because yeah. Right or wrong, he was grieving.

“Okay, kids, that’s enough questions for Mr. Coleman right now. Finish your art projects, please,” Akira said. “If you have any questions, you can direct them to Mr. Wrigley.”

Mr. Wrigley’s short gray hair had receded to the top of his head, so that it sat there like a tiara. He had glasses as big as his smile. Clearly, this was the volunteer Akira had mentioned at lunch.

“Right this way,” she said to Ben quietly.

He’d learned early in his teaching career that he had to stay on top of his classroom. If he let it slide, even for a couple of days, he’d find himself buried in mess. It looked like Akira had learned the same lesson. She kept this place organized . . . except for her desk. Stacks of loose paper took up most of the space. Two empty mugs sat on top of a calendar. One mug said, It takes a village! The other one said, One child, one teacher, one book, one pen can change the world.—Malala Yousafzai. Mechanical pencils lay everywhere, like trees fallen in a forest.

He took the chair she’d placed next to hers.

She opened a document on her computer titled Science Unit, then set her fingertips on the keyboard. A moment passed. Then several more.

He filled the silence. “What did you have in mind for the science unit?”

“Oh . . . What did you have in mind? I’m open to your superior knowledge on the subject.”

“What aspects of science are the kids learning at this age?”

“Um . . .” She regarded him with kindness but didn’t answer. It was as if her mind were a hundred miles away.

He finally repeated his question. “What aspects of science are the kids learning at this age?”

Again, an unusually long pause. “I really . . . um . . . don’t know.”

“But you’re the director of the after-school program here.” He grinned. “Right?”

A merry laugh broke from her. Gently, she leaned her forehead on the top edge of her computer, then shook it from side to side. Straightening, she met his eyes. “I’m going to confess something to you, and afterward you’re going to think I’m weird.”

He already did think she was weird, but he said, “No, I won’t,” because that was the reassuring thing you were supposed to say.

“Did you notice the other day at lunch that I hardly spoke?”

“I don’t have any problem with quiet people. If you met my family of loud talkers, you’d know why.”