Mom seems more intense than usual this morning. She leans against the wheel as she drives, her eyes scanning every bundled pedestrian. A cold autumn rain pelts against the windshield, each droplet intent on destroying itself throughly against the glass.

“Mom,” you say, “I have an art project and I have to do it with a girl from France and ..”

“Where in France?”

“Knowned.”

“Nantes.”

“Yeah! She’s from Knowned. And we have to work on a project together about our families. Her dad works in a robot factory and her mom teaches therapy and I told her that my dad works at a radio station but … what do you do?”

“I love you, and worry about you, and try to protect you,” she keeps her hands on the wheel. “That’s what I do.”

“I love you, too, mom. I know that, but what is your job? I mean what picture can I cut …”

“What do I do?”

The Ford Kuga glides to a halt at a stop sign. Your mom looks both ways then looks down at you in the seat next to her. You feel her eyes evaluating you through her dark glasses. Her thin pale lips form a twitching dask mark, but you don’t what words they are joining together.

“Do you want to know exactly what I do? Are ready to know?” she asks.

She pulls her sunglasses off, and you expect to see her motherly eyes, but instead you encounter harsh dark irises. You see the nighttime over the ice of Lake Michigan and cold nights waiting for her father to come home from ice fishing. She sizes you up. She wants to know your being. Answer her.

“Um … yes. I’m ready. Tell me! What do you do?”

She puts her sunglasses back on, released the brake and turns the corner without saying anything. You ride in silence. When the car stops in the front of the school, she grabs your arm before you leave.

“Next week,” she says, “I’m gonna have you walk the final two blocks to the school by yourself. Then you’ll find out what I do.”