“Everything’s fine, baby,” I lie. “But I think Mrs. King needs a break today.” Which means, of course, I’ll need to find another sitter for Sonia while I’m at work.

I rule out the other neighbors, one by one. Too old, too religious, too weird, too careless. The last thing any of us needs is Sonia falling off a swing set or—worse, I think—coming back home reciting passages from the Pure’s manifesto. I rub sleep out of my eyes and search my brain for a solution.

It comes to me, all at once, that triple blink of my mailman’s eyes. And he’s got three girls.

While Sonia’s crunching on cereal, I outline my day. Make a doctor’s appointment, wait for the mailman, check on Olivia as soon as Evan leaves for work, get to the office and tell Lin what I found in Patrick’s office yesterday. What I’m not planning on doing: watching Julia King’s public shaming.

The program will air today, and tonight, and probably for most of the next month until there’s a new victim to parade in front of the press. They always handle it this way, usually inserting the footage into some show they know people will be watching. It’s sinister. No one is actually forced to watch, but the alternative is to keep your television off. And even then, reruns crop up when you least expect them—during cooking shows, This Old House, a documentary on zebras.

Steven pads back into the kitchen. “I don’t feel so hot. Think I’ll skip school today.”

Of course he’ll want to do that. Julia King will be the feature of the day at PBS.

“You’re not sick, Steven,” I say. “So go get your brothers up and put some clothes on.” I check the clock. “Bus is coming in an hour.”

“But, Mom—”

“Just don’t, kiddo.”

He needs to see this program, needs to be strapped down with his eyelids forced open like that son of a bitch in the Stanley Kubrick movie. Maybe, for good measure, they’ll throw in a few clips of Julia’s future life in the fields or fisheries.

The phone rings as I’m rinsing dishes. “Get that for me, please. Then wake Sam and Leo.” I turn to Sonia. “How about you go check on your daddy? You can bring him this if you’re careful.” I hand her a half-filled coffee mug, wincing a little at the stench. Never before did it occur to me how much coffee smells like shit.

“Okay!” Sonia says, and goes off, holding the mug with both hands, walking at a snail’s pace. With any luck, Patrick will get his coffee sometime in the next week.

“It’s for you,” Steven says. “It’s Babbo.”