“Oh, Mary,” says a woman with in a kind voice. “Your blouse, I think there’s a spot— ”

Mary’s face whips around. “I know! I didn’t have time to clean it! Or I would’ve cleaned it.” She turns back to Mr. McCracken. “And you told me that I had to wear something bright. And, then, I also had to write a birthday card to my old counselor, too...” she says like he should know something important happened. “And, a get-well card for my mother’s friend, she went in for a cataract, you know.”

After a moment’s pause, he smiles. “No problem. Good luck.”

“Yes, good luck, Mary,” says the woman with the kind voice.

“Good luck today, Mary...” another person says.

“Go get ‘em,” says someone else nearby.

Holding the stack of papers against her hip, Mary lifts her head around to see the faces are all friendly and sincere. She begins crying in an unusual way for her, mixing tears of gratitude with shame at her own behavior. She gets a few pats on the back on leaving. A final suggestion crosses Mr. McCracken’s mind—that she wipe the foam from the corner of her mouth. He keeps it to himself.