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her back to the kitchen. She took a carton of yogurt from the fridge. “Excuse me,” she said again. He followed her into the dining room again. He had both fists balled up in the deep front pockets of his coveralls, which made it seem as if he were carrying a muff. “In two more months he’ll be forced to leave the country,” he said.
    “Can’t you get his visa renewed?”
    “Theoretically, I can. But it’s all about who’s applying for him—whether that person’s project is important enough, and I suspect that some of my colleagues think mine has gone off the deep end. Well, what do
they
know, right? I’m on to something here, I really feel it; I’m about to discover one single, unified key to autoimmune disorders. Still, Immigration’s going to say I should just get along without him. Ever since nine-eleven, Immigration’s been so unreasonable.”
    “Huh,” Kate said. They were back in the kitchen. She chose three apples from the bowl on the counter. “So who will you get instead?”
    “Instead!” her father said. He stared at her. “Kate,” he said. “This is Pyoder Cherbakov! Now that I’ve worked with Pyoder Cherbakov, nobody else will do.”
    “Well, it sounds to me as if somebody else will
have
to do,” Kate said. “Excuse me,” she said again. She returned to the dining room, with her father once more following, and placed an apple above each plate.
    “I’m ruined,” her father said. “I’m doomed. I might as well abandon my research.”
    “Heavens, Father.”
    “Unless, perhaps, we could get him an…adjustment of status.”
    “Oh, good. Get him an adjustment of status.”
    She brushed past him and went out to the hall. “Bunny!” she shouted up the stairs. “Supper’s on!”
    “We could adjust his status to ‘married to an American.’ ”
    “Pyotr’s married to an American?”
    “Well, not quite yet,” her father said. He trailed her back to the dining room. “But he’s fairly nice-looking, I believe. Don’t you agree? All those girls working in the building: they seem to find different reasons to talk to him.”
    “So could he marry a girl in the building?” Kate asked. She sat down at her place and shook out her napkin.
    “I don’t think so,” her father said. “He doesn’t…the conversations never seem to develop any further, unfortunately.”
    “Then who?”
    Her father sat down at the head of the table. He cleared his throat. He said, “You, maybe?”
    “Very funny,” she told him. “Oh, where
is
that girl? Bernice Battista!” she shouted. “Get down here this instant!”
    “I
am
down,” Bunny said, arriving in the doorway. “You don’t have to blast my ears off.”
    She plopped herself in the chair across from Kate. “Hi, Poppy,” she said.
    There was a long silence, during which Dr. Battista seemed to be dragging himself up from the depths. Finally he said, “Hello, Bunny.” His voice had a mournful, hollow sound.
    Bunny raised her eyebrows at Kate. Kate shrugged and picked up the serving spoon.

“Happy Tuesday, children,” Mrs. Darling said, and then she asked Kate to come to her office again.
    This time Kate couldn’t leave her class during Quiet Rest Time, because Mrs. Chauncey was out sick. And on Tuesdays she was responsible for Extended Daycare once school was over. So she would be forced to stay in suspense from lunchtime until 5:30.
    She didn’t have the slightest idea what Mrs. Darling wanted to see her about. But then, she seldom did. The etiquette in this place was so mysterious! Or the customs, or the conventions, or whatever…Like not showing strangers the soles of your feet or something. She tried to cast her mind back over anything she might have done wrong, but how much
could
she have done wrong between yesterday afternoon and noon today? She had made a point of keeping her interactions with parents to a minimum, and she didn’t think Mrs. Darling could have heard about her little tantrum this morning when she