She would go inside. She would call the foundation. She would have her tea, cold as it was by now, and sit with her book, and when Julian brought the twins home, she would hear about the playground in the particular simultaneous overlapping way that Justina and Josh told stories, each one interrupting the other, neither one bothered by it, their narratives plaited together like rope, and she would hold that.
She would hold that and be here and not be anywhere else. She turned and walked back to the house. Halfway to the door, she stopped. She turned back toward the gate.
She stood there for a moment with the afternoon light on her face.
What is wrong with her child? The question was there. It would not be put back. She was not built for not knowing, not when the knowing might matter, not when it was a child.
She pressed it down. Firmly. The way you press a lid onto something that needs to be contained a little longer. Tomorrow, the foundation would know.
