So I wrote my report. When I was done, I took the string ball Lucy made for me, and stapled it to the upper right-hand corner.

Eight a.m. The kids were up, the sun was shining through the windows, and the newly appointed security guard was standing outside the doors.

I headed for the hospital cafeteria and waited for Karen to find me there.

It was past nine when Karen finally showed. She entered the cafeteria and headed straight for me. Her wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her ash-colored hair pinned back messily, an administrator who’d been roused from her bed and still hadn’t had the chance to return there. Her footsteps were brisk. Her gaze level. She was all business, my boss. She’d been heading the unit for at least a dozen years now, and I couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.

She pulled out the chair across from me, setting down her ubiquitous pile of papers, and pushing her glasses into place with one finger. She eyed my uneaten bagel, cup of coffee. “Do you need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to my mug.

I shook my head. My stomach couldn’t take any more caffeine, let alone my nerves.

She headed for the food, loading up a tray, then returning to me. She had a banana, a muffin, and steaming mug of Lipton tea. This was kindness on her part. We had a kitchenette in the unit where she could eat the exact same meal for free. But there’s something about meeting someone in a cafeteria. You must break bread together; it’s part of the tradition.

She peeled her banana. I managed a bite of bagel. Then, because I just couldn’t take it, I spoke first.

“You know I didn’t hurt her, right?” I burst out. “You know I would never do anything to harm Lucy, or any other child.”

“I don’t know that,” Karen said, and I felt my stomach lurch. She continued, “I believe that, however. If asked an opinion, I would say you would never intentionally harm a child.”

I nodded, pathetically grateful for her show of faith. “I don’t know what happened,” I whispered.

“I don’t know either. In this matter, we’re going to have to defer to the police.”

“Who will take care of her?” I asked, meaning Lucy’s body.

“I don’t know,” Karen said again. “Abuse charges are pending against her foster parents; she went straight from their custody to ours. Does the state claim her body, make arrangements for her? This is my first time in a situation like this.”

“We should do it,” I said immediately. “It’ll give our kids a chance to say goodbye.”

“Danielle, Lucy only stayed with us a matter of days. And she never mingled with the other kids. They still haven’t figured out she’s gone.”

“What will you tell them?”

“Given her limited impact on their lives, very little. We’ll answer any questions they ask, of course, but I’m not convinced they’ll ask many.”

The comment depressed me more. I sank lower in my chair. “Doesn’t seem right,” I murmured. “She was a child, a nine-year-old girl, and now she’s dead and no one misses her. That doesn’t seem right.”

“I miss her,” Karen said steadily. “You miss her, too.”

My eyes burned. I looked away, staring hard at the blue linoleum floor.

“Go home,” Karen said. “Run or rest, scream or meditate, do whatever it is you need to do to heal. You’re an exceptional nurse, Danielle. And a good person. This is going to pass. You’re going to feel okay again.”

“I want to work.”

“Not an option.”

“I need the kids. Taking care of them is how I take care of myself.”

“Not an option.”

“I’ll observe. Catch up on paperwork. Stay out of everyone’s way. I promise.”

“Danielle, the police will be returning at any moment. You don’t need to be on the unit. You need to be at home, phoning a good lawyer.”

“But I didn’t-”

Karen held up a hand: “Preaching to the choir. Take care of you, Danielle. You matter to the kids. You matter to all of us.”

I wished she wouldn’t say stuff like that. I swiped at my eyes, stared harder at the cafeteria floor.

“There will be two staff debriefings,” Karen added finally. “Two p.m. for the day shift; eleven p.m. for the night shift. If you want to attend, off the clock, you’re welcome. We need to establish new procedures so this kind of thing never happens again. I’m also arranging for counseling for any who need it. Something else for you to consider.”

I nodded. She’d tossed me a bone. I accepted it.

Across the way, I noticed Greg now walking into the cafeteria, scanning each table. He headed toward me, then spotted Karen and hesitated. Karen, however, saw him, too. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for him.

She grabbed her paperwork, topped it with her uneaten muffin.

“You need to take care of you,” she repeated firmly, then she departed as Greg approached. He walked straight toward me. Made no move to grab breakfast, made no motion to pull out a chair. He halted before me.

“Come home,” he said.

“Can’t stand the thought,” I told him honestly.

“Not your home, Danielle. Mine.”

So I did.

Turned out Greg shared a three-bedroom apartment with two other guys. Like many local apartments, it was carved out of a once grand home, with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings, and bull’s-eye molding around the expansive bay windows. The place felt worn around the edges, an aging matriarch with good bones but tired skin. I commented on the crown molding. Greg shrugged. Apparently, he wasn’t into architecture.

His roommates were gone. Probably down by the river, he mumbled. Perfect day for hanging out on the Charles. Hot, humid, hazy. Greg turned on the window AC units as he gave me the nickel tour. Still, we were both sweating by the time we reached the end of the hall.

He opened the last door, gestured inside. “My pad,” he said simply.

It was neater than I expected. No towels or stray clothing strewn across the floor. The furniture was College Dorm 101. A double mattress, sans frame and headboard. An old maple dresser, slightly lopsided, missing one knob. An equally old maple desk, small for a guy Greg’s size, and dwarfed by a black office chair.

No posters hanging up. No pictures adorning the dresser. The room featured cream-colored paint on the walls, dark green sheets on the bed, and tan blinds on the sunny windows. That was it. The room was a way station. A place for someone to crash, not for someone to live.

I looked at Greg, realizing for the first time how little I knew about him.

“No photo of the girlfriend on the nightstand?” I commented.

“No nightstand,” he said. “No girlfriend.”

“Family?”

“Got a sister in Pennsylvania.”

“You never talk about her.”

“You never ask.”

He had me there. I rarely questioned him or anyone else. It was ironic, if you thought about it. My entire personal history entered the room way before I did; I could see it on people’s faces when we were finally introduced. Oh, so she’s the one whose father shot everyone… Therefore, I didn’t inquire about others. That would invite them to ask about me, and then I’d have to verify the rumors in their heads.

“Ever see her?” I asked now. “Your sister?”

“Not lately.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Busy working, I guess.” He set his duffel bag down next to the wall. We both stared awkwardly at each other, too aware of the mattress in the corner.

“Not much artwork,” I commented at last.

“No.”

“Don’t plan on staying for long?”

“Don’t spend much time here,” he answered. “I work two jobs, and save my pennies to buy a home someday. I want a fenced-in yard, a puppy, a wife, and two-point-two kids. That’s where I’m going. This is just where I am now.”

I didn’t say anything. It was a nice dream. Fit him. He wasn’t screwing around. That kind of baggage… all mine, not his.