A better mother would have taken him to the doctor right away. Or just a more hovering one? Her hesitancy wasn’t out of a lack of love or compassion, she told herself; it was optimism. She had a surfeit of it: She wasn’t pregnant, it was heartburn. Her son wasn’t sick, he was just getting accustomed to the new school. Her father hadn’t left, he was just on a very long business trip.

Her mind began to peek into the dark and terrifying alleys the Internet seduced her into when she’d Googled “headaches” this afternoon, something she had not allowed herself to do until today—carbon monoxide poisoning, blood clot, aneurysm, brain tumor—

“He’ll start to get better now. He just needed the right medication,” Grant said, drawing her back again.

“He will, won’t he? He’s a healthy five-year-old.”

“That’s right. And the smartest one I’ve ever known.”

“He is!” She laughed, her relief exploding into the room.

Grant’s reassurances allowed her to believe that everything would be okay. He did this for her. He had always done this for her. Brought her back from the brink. It made no sense, really. He knew no more than she did—less, he usually knew less—but his voice was steady and soothing and it allowed her to breathe again.

Neither of them mentioned Adam’s parent-teacher conference, which they had attended before the doctor’s appointment. He interrupts other children. He cries easily. He looks out the window instead of at the board. This, too, was surely the result of the headaches.

When she walked Adam home from school after the conference, they passed three little trees that had been cut low on their slim trunks, not all the way through, but half to three-quarters, like a slash to their Achilles tendons. They leaned together, holding one another up, reminiscent of three children crying, which had inspired Adam to cry too.

Who was damaging them? The residents of Willard Park were hot with curiosity and concern. She, along with everyone else in town, had received a poem about trees in her e-mail inbox today. It was the second time this week. This one had been by Robert Frost, the first by Thoreau. Who was sending them? The address was mysterious: [email protected]. It might be a town employee or a member of the town council—someone with access to the resident e-mail list. It was probably Ted Miller, who was, well, preoccupied was one way of putting it. Apparently that was all he and Allison talked about anymore.