Lewis takes a sip of coffee, shrugging. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you think Josh and Ben have argued?"

"I thought that might have been what made Josh upset."

"But they don't argue usually, do they?" In that moment I realize how little I know about Josh and Ben's friendship. Lewis is the one who handles the play dates, who picks the boys up from school. I've never considered just how ignorant I am about the details. I've just been happy that Josh has a friend.

"Not often," Lewis says, and reaches for the newspaper. "But I thought it might be a possibility. In any case," he adds as he snaps the paper open, "Josh will tell us in time. We've just got to be patient."

Josh comes back into the room and so I don't press Lewis. Instead I smile and ruffle Josh's hair. For once he doesn't duck away from my hand; instead he leans a little into me, and my heart melts and yearns with mother love.

"Ready for school?" I ask, and he nods.

Lewis heads to his workshop uptown while Josh and I wait for the subway on Ninety-Sixth Street. It is another beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant, hard blue. In the distance the leaves on the trees in Central Park are just starting to turn. Everything dazzles.

We don't speak on the subway; the morning commute makes conversation impossible anyway. At Seventy-Second Street Josh gets a seat and I remain looming over him, hanging onto one of the straps. We make it to Burgdorf with just two minutes to spare before the doors close; being late costs twenty dollars a pop, a fact that outrages Lewis, considering the over thirty grand price tag the school has already. So far this year we've paid over a hundred bucks in late fees.

I bustle Josh towards the door; parents are encouraged to stay outside so children can 'value their independence' and get to the classrooms by themselves. Of course, most parents ignore this rule. We Manhattan mothers are a pushy lot. I consider going into Josh's classroom, introducing myself to Mrs. Rollins, and mentioning that I think something is bothering Josh. But then the bell rings and the doors close and I know his teacher-whom I haven't even met yet-will be annoyed at having a parent wanting a private word when the school day has already started. Plus I have an appointment at nine.

Still I take a moment before Josh goes in to hold him by the shoulders, look into his eyes. "I love you," I say, and Josh blinks rapidly. For a second I wonder if he is going to cry, and the thought makes me want to cry. "You know that, don't you, Josh?" I press, my voice choking a little. "I really, really love you."

He nods, still blinking, and then he twists out of my grasp and goes into the classroom. I turn away from Burgdorf and head downtown to my office on Forty-Second and Sixth, trying to banish my lingering fears.

Two years ago I opened my own private dental practice, after working for a larger practice uptown. In theory it was meant to give me more flexibility so I could spend more time with Josh, be there for drop offs and pick up and the sports games that have never actually materialized, because Josh hates sports. In reality operating a private practice is a ton more work. I'm responsible for everything, and the bills and maintenance costs I have to heft by myself mean I never turn away business. I rarely get home before seven at night, and I've even had to go in for emergency appointments on weekends since they pay the best.

Still, I enjoy my work. I went into dentistry by default; my parents, retired now, were both cardiothoracic surgeons and although they'd never said it out loud, I always knew they wanted me to go into the same field. Their disappointment in my life choices has always been conveyed by silence rather than words.

I would have gone into cardiothoracic surgery just to please them, but I couldn't stand the intensity, and the idea that you might, quite literally, have someone's heart in your hands made me feel sick and faint.

So I applied to dental school instead, and spent four years training to become a dentist with a specialty in periodontics at Columbia with my parents acting as if I were learning how to clean toilets. Of course, they never said that. But their silences have always been eloquent.

The surprise for me was that I actually enjoyed it. Defaults are usually disappointments, but I've never regretted becoming a dentist. I like being able to fix problems, and usually relatively easily. A cavity can be filled; a broken tooth can be capped.

Of course, there are the usual hassles: patients come in with an abcess or dentures or a need for multiple root canals. Sometimes there are worse problems, white spots or bumps on the gums that indicate oral cancer. I've had several cases where I've had to refer a patient to an oncologist. But at least I was there at the start. I don't want to be the one who is there at the end.

Normally, though, my day is one of scheduled appointments, fillings and root canals and restorations, along with the cosmetic work our culture of airbrushed beauty demands. I've said on more than one occasion that I can see the charm in a crooked smile. In point of fact, my own teeth are not perfectly straight, but I don't have any fillings, either.

Barbara, my receptionist, raises her eyebrows at me as I come into my small office on the second floor of a Brownstone across from Bryant Park. I'm not usually this late, and my nine o'clock is already waiting, flipping through one of the magazines in the waiting room.

"Everything okay?" Barbara asks in a murmur after I've greeted the patient and go back to take off my coat.

I nod. "I just wanted to take to Josh to school. He's having a bit of a tough time."

Barbara clucks sympathetically. She has no children, has never married, and I've only given her sparing details about Josh because I know she won't understand. I don't know if anyone will understand; so many people want to either label or fix Josh, or just leave him alone. I want none of those and all of them at the same time.

I've just finished my third appointment, a straightforward filling, when my cell rings. I check the screen and my heart seems to hang suspended in my chest when I see it is Burgdorf calling.

"Mrs. Taylor-Davies?" a woman asks and I clear my throat.

"Yes?"

"This is Mrs. James from The Burgdorf Institute for Committed Learning." Mrs. James, I've noticed, always refers to the school by its full and rather ridiculous name.

"Yes?"

"I was hoping you and your husband might come into the school today, to talk about Joshua."

My hand, now slippery, tightens on the phone. "Josh? Why? Is something wrong?"

A tense pause. "I don't like to discuss these things on the telephone. Could you and Mr. Taylor-Davies come in at one-thirty?"

I glance at my watch; that's in less than an hour. It will be difficult, but it's obviously important and I don't really feel like I have a choice.

"Okay," I say, and then, my stomach knotting, I call Lewis.

"Why the hell does she want us to come in so quickly?" he demands.

"She wouldn't say on the phone-"

"Of course she wouldn't," Lewis says in disgust. Lewis has never been a fan of Burgdorf and its alternative approach to education. When I first showed him the brochure, he did an Internet search on the educator whose philosophies Burgdorf is founded on, Johann Pestalozzi.

"You realize this guy was a total loser, right?" Lewis asked me as he looked up from his laptop. "He reduced his family to poverty, he tried to farm and it failed. He started a school and it failed."

I scrabbled for the brochure, searching for the brief paragraph on Pestalozzi. "He started another school at Burgdorf Castle that was innovative for its time," I read a bit desperately. Lewis just shook his head.

Lewis might not have liked Burgdorf but he accepted its necessity; he recognized that the intense atmosphere of Manhattan's competitive private schools would be unbearable for Josh, and the brutal social dynamics of public school would swallow our son whole and spit him back out in seconds.

"This meeting is obviously important, Lewis," I say quietly. "Maybe she'll tell us what's bothering Josh."

"You really think she knows?" Lewis asks, but he relents. "I'll meet you at Burgdorf."

At one-twenty I am standing outside Burgdorf's bright blue doors, waiting for Lewis. Tension coils tighter and tighter inside me as I scan the busy streets for his familiar figure, that easy, loping walk. I have no idea what awaits us inside the school, what Mrs. James wants to discuss with us, and why she wouldn't mention it on the phone. Josh may be quiet, but he's generally a good kid. He obeys his teachers, he does his homework, he doesn't tease or bully or fight. Yet Mrs. James sounded as if he were in trouble, and considering how withdrawn Josh has been for the last two days, that doesn't seem like an impossibility. But I hate the thought of it.

Lewis finally shows up at one thirty-five. "Subway stalled," he mutters, and I can tell from the way his mouth compresses and his nose looks pinched that he is worried about this meeting too.

We head into the school together; although Burgdorf is in an office building, they have done a good job of making it child-friendly; the walls are covered with children's art work and there are chalkboards and whiteboards for children to add their own spontaneous creations.

Mrs. James's assistant Tanya ushers us into her office, that inner sanctum, immediately, which makes my stomach lurch. This is feeling more urgent and awful with every moment.

Mrs. James rises from behind her desk and holds out a hand which Lewis and I shake in turn. I would have expected the headmistress of an alternative school like Burgdorf to be relaxed, easygoing, even a bit hippyish, but Ruth James is none of those things. In her mid-fifties with a steel-gray bob and pale blue eyes, she is elegant and dignified and more than a bit remote. Sometimes I wonder how much of Burgdorf's philosophy she actually believes in. Maybe this was the only headship she could get.

She waits for us to sit before sitting down herself and then folding her hands on the desk in front of her.

"Obviously you know about Ben Reese's accident yesterday," she begins, and Lewis and I both gape.

"I'm sorry, we weren't aware that Ben had an accident," I say after a few seconds' silence. "Is he all right?"

Mrs. James's eyes narrow and her lips purse. "No, he is not. He is in the hospital with a serious brain injury."

"Oh, no." Shock ices through me. How will Josh cope without Ben, his best and only friend? And then I feel ashamed because I am thinking of Josh, rather than Ben, who sounds like he is seriously injured. "I'm so sorry," I say.

"Josh didn't tell you?" Mrs. James says after another expectant pause, and I feel my face heat even as my hands go clammy. Josh's sorrowful silence last night makes sense now, but why wouldn't he tell us his friend was hurt? Why wouldn't he share something like that?

"No, he didn't," I say, because how can I say anything else? I glance at Lewis; he is silent and stony-faced, but I see how his face is pale with shock. We endure another few seconds' silence.

"Don't you think," Mrs. James finally says, her gaze swiveling from me to Lewis, "that's rather odd?"

I glance again at Lewis; he has folded his arms and is staring straight ahead.

"Yes," I finally say. I meet Mrs. James's gaze, squaring my shoulders. "Yes, I do think it is rather odd. But there must be an explanation."

"There is," Mrs. James answers, and now her voice sounds decidedly cool. She draws herself up, her steely gaze moving between the two of us. "The truth is, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor-Davies," she says, "I have reason to believe that Josh pushed Ben."

5.

MADDIE.

I am just coming back to the hospital at around nine in the morning when Mrs. James from Burgdorf calls me.

"Maddie," she says, and her voice is as smooth and assured as ever. "I just wanted to check how Ben is doing."

I grit my teeth; I don't know why her concern irritates me, but it does. I imagine her at her desk, scratching off the first item on her to-do list. Call Maddie Reese. "He's still in a coma, Ruth," I say before I can help myself. Our headmistress has never invited anyone to address her by her first name. "So I'm afraid I can't really answer that question."

There is a slightly chilly pause. "I'm sorry to hear that. Of course, if there is anything we at Burgdorf can do..." She lets this useless sentiment hang in the air for a moment before she continues, "I've asked Mrs. Rollins to keep his homework assignments for him."

I almost laugh, or maybe scream. Does she actually think I care about Ben's homework assignments?

Mrs. James seems to be waiting for me to say something, probably thank you, but I can't make myself say it. Instead I hear myself say in a hard voice, "I'd like to know more about Ben's accident."

Silence.

"What...what do you mean?" Mrs. James asks, and although she still sounds assured, her delivery isn't quite as smooth, and suspicion hardens inside me. First Juliet, now Mrs. James. What the hell is going on?

"Just what I said," I say. "Nobody has told me anything except that Ben fell. Where did he fall? How? Where were the playground supervisors when this happened? Why didn't they see anything?" Juliet. Where was Juliet?

"I don't know all the details," Mrs. James says after a second's pause, "as I wasn't there. But of course I can talk to Mrs. Rollins-"

"You mean you haven't already?" I cut across her. "A child at your school suffers a life-threatening injury and you haven't even talked to his teacher?"

Mrs. James is silent. "Ms. Reese," she finally says, and her voice is quiet, commanding. "I understand you are worried about your son. But please be assured that we have followed all the protocols this situation requires-"

"This situation is my son's life," I shoot back. "I don't care about protocols. I want details. Answers. I want to know how my son fell, and why no one even noticed. I want to know what the hell happened."

I hear Mrs. James's sharply indrawn breath but I don't care if I've offended her. I am too angry.

"I will talk to Mrs. Rollins as soon as possible," Mrs. James says stiffly. "And let you know what she says in due course."

"Fine," I answer. "Please call me back as soon as you can." I'm not going to thank her for doing her damn job. And yet as I disconnect the call I wonder at the wisdom of throwing a fit at my son's headmistress. But then maybe she won't be his headmistress any more. Maybe Ben won't be going back to Burgdorf; maybe he won't be able to.

I slide my phone into my bag and hurry into the hospital; I've been away from Ben for nearly two hours. I am shaking from my conversation with Mrs. James, but I force that out of my mind as I approach the heavy double doors that lead to the ER and Ben's room.

The new nurse on duty informs me that Ben is now stable enough for him to be transferred to the neurology department. I wait for an hour before they are finally ready to transfer him; I watch with my heart in my mouth as two orderlies carefully move his supine body from the bed to the stretcher. Machines attached to him beep and shriek and I resist the impulse to cover my ears with my hands.

I follow them up to the neurology department, which is an oasis of calm compared to the ER. There are no sirens or screams, no weeping or groans. Every patient has a private room and the nurses and doctors seem both focused and friendly. The knot of tension that has resided between my shoulder blades since I first got that phone call loosens ever so slightly.

Now that Ben is in the neurology department, he has a new doctor, a brain injury specialist, Nadine Velas. She introduces herself to me as soon as Ben is settled, taking me to her private office and pouring me a Dixie cup of water which I sip awkwardly.

"So, Ms. Reese." She scans Ben's file. "May I call you Madeleine?"

"Maddie," I say, and she looks up and smiles.

"Maddie. I know things have been moving very fast for you, and you've probably had a ton of information thrown at you. So I'm here to ask you if you want to ask me any questions." She smiles again and waits, her hands folded on her desk. She is a pretty, vibrant woman in her mid-forties; I can see a bright pink top underneath her white lab coat. I instinctively like her, more than the stern-faced doctor down in the ER.

I have about a million questions to ask her, but I manage just one. "When do you think Ben will wake up?"

"I can't answer that for certain," she tells me. "But if he remains stable through the next few days, we'll start considering reducing the medication that is keeping him in a comatose state. For better or worse, the brain is a tricky thing. There is no predicting how it, and how Ben, will react to the lowered dosage. So if his body resists and he experiences another storming episode..." She waits, eyebrows raised, to check if I know the lingo, and I nod. "Then we'll have to proceed very carefully. But for now I'd say we'll start considering when to wake him up in the next forty-eight hours."

I nod, suddenly overwhelmed because yesterday Dr. Stein was telling me the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours would be critical to Ben's survival. Now Dr. Velas isn't talking about if he survives, but when he wakes up. This is progress.

"I also should say at this point that there are no guarantees about what Ben's capabilities will be when he does come out of the coma," Dr. Velas continues, her tone one of quiet warning. My relief lasted all of two seconds. "It's impossible to tell how badly his brain has been injured, or what faculties will be affected." She pauses to check I've digested this, and I manage another nod, this one jerky. "His movements might be limited, or his speech or his memory, or all three. I simply cannot say at this stage."

"Can't you...can't you tell from the CT scan he had when he first came to the ER?" I ask.

"We can tell what kind of injury he has," Dr. Velas agrees, "and in this case, we know he has a contusion on the left temporal lobe. How that manifests itself when he is conscious, we'll just have to see."

"But the contusion..." I stumble slightly over the word, "will heal, won't it? Isn't it just like a...like a bruise?"

"Yes," Dr. Velas says gently, "a bruise on the brain. There will still almost certainly be existing and pervasive brain damage."

The words together jar me; they are what I haven't wanted to face. Brain damage. I don't want to associate them with Ben, with my son, with my life. And yet Dr. Velas spoke them with an awful, quiet certainty.

I spend the rest of the day alternating between the waiting room, the hospital's restaurant, and Ben's room. I sit by his bed and study his face, his rounded cheeks, his sandy brown hair, the freckles dusted across his nose.

Sitting there in the quiet solitude, the only sound the steady beep of the machines that surround him, measuring all the vital signs I don't really understand, I let my mind wander through the last nine and a half years of Ben's life. I search for good memories, and I am ashamed at how few of them there actually are. So much of my life with Ben has been a weary struggle through a blur of days: the exhaustion of his infancy, the endless tantrums of his toddlerhood, and then off to school where I was always wrestling and negotiating and ultimately relenting. Summers and holidays have been a maze of patched-together childcare; as an Alwin employee I get seventeen days of vacation a year. Ben has three months of summer vacation. None of this has been easy.