At one point she comes into the living room holding my daughter’s small canvas backpack — the one with the strawberry on it, that she took to daycare — and shakes it out onto the dining table.

Nothing comes out but a hair clip and a half-eaten cracker.

Wednesday is nothing.

Wednesday is a day in an apartment.

Thursday — the day I came home — begins normally and then, at 4:40 in the afternoon, Beatrice comes into the living room carrying a set of clippers.

I watched fourteen seconds of what happened next.