Bee had asked Sarah to bring the ceramic figure Joey had made of himself in crafts to the staff meeting, so she carefully set it on Dr. Bee’s desk and stepped back. Then, on an impulse, she bent the gooseneck lamp so that the figure was spotlighted. Obviously, she told herself, she wanted the staff to see it while they discussed Joey’s going home. Why? She went and sat on the window sill and stared at the eight-year-old body, the pipestem arms and legs, the big head precariously balanced on the long delicate neck. Joey had made clumsy thumb indentations for the eyes, but somehow they were Joey’s, enormous, cavernous, unplumbed. She particularly wanted the staff to see Joey’s eyes while they discussed his going home. Why? This room, which had been the dining room when the huge ornate stone house had been the local mansion, was now Dr. Bee’s office. His flat-topped Swedish modern desk, the Eames chairs and the spider-legged typewriter table looked not only incongruous, but—what …?
