1:10 p.m., the Caterpillar Room. Twelve toddlers are asleep, the shades are down and one blade of October sun lies across the far wall. Nadia sits on the floor beside Ollie's cot with her cardigan cuff caught in his fist, stuck in place until he sleeps deeper. You kneel across the cot from her with Brooke's text still lit on your phone. You came in to tell her she needs to stay on the license. You get four words out before she raises one finger to her lips and whispers the rule for the next eighty minutes: ask, don't tell.
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