“Is she all right?” Sydney asks suddenly. She turns to find Rebecca, but we both realize she and Mr. Wolfe have left.

“Yes,” I say. “I told her I’d go to Anton with her and tell him what I saw, but she asked me not to. Said he’d devalue her.” My tone is helpless, and I can see that Sydney is struggling too.

“I think we tell Anton anyway,” says Sydney with forced certainty. “If nothing else, her lawyer’s distracting her from her education.” She pauses. “Right?”

We’re both quiet as we think it over, the hum of quiet conversation still echoing around the room. The piano player’s gone for the evening, and the bartender is packing up. There was something about the interaction between Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe, something . . . familiar. Even though that’s not possible.

We definitely need Anton to sort this out. He is our analyst, after all.

“I haven’t seen Anton in a while,” Sydney says. “Do you think he left?”

“He might have.” I worry that we’ll have to wait until morning; it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to go to his office at night.

But when I glance out the glass doors of the patio, I see Anton outside, talking on his phone. I’m relieved that he’s still here. I pat Sydney’s arm, getting her attention, and then we rush that way.

When Anton sees us coming toward him, he turns his face, saying something into the phone before clicking off his call. He slips the phone into his pocket as we open the doors and are hit immediately with chilly night air. Sydney noticeably shivers.

“Hello, girls,” Anton says, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are red from the cold, and he doesn’t seem happy to see us. We interrupted his call.

Anton adjusts the knot on his tie to loosen it. “I’ve been in and out of meetings tonight,” he says. “Were you looking for me? Because if this is about Lennon Rose again, then—”

“It’s not,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I saw something,” I tell the analyst. “And Sydney and I think you should know about it.”

Anton resets his stance, completely serious. “Go on,” he says, motioning for me to continue.

It feels a bit like a betrayal, telling Anton about the private moment between Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe—especially after promising her I’d stay out of it. But it also feels like something the school should be aware of. At least, that’s what I predict Anton will say.

I describe Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe on the couch. The slap. The threat. And then I tell him what Rebecca said to me afterward. Anton’s throat visibly bobs as he listens, and he occasionally flicks his gaze to Sydney to make sure she’s agreeing with what I’m saying.

When I’m done, shaking in the cold and embarrassed to have told the analyst such an explicit story, Anton crosses his arms over his chest. He nods appreciatively.

“You were right to tell me,” he says, and I sigh out my relief. When I turn to Sydney, she smiles like she’s proud of us for making the right decision.

“Was it wrong?” Sydney asks him. “Was it wrong of Mr. Wolfe to treat Rebecca that way?”

But something about the question seems to trouble Anton, and he examines her, pausing long enough to make Sydney apologize.

“It’s not for you to judge,” Anton says finally, even with a bit of humor. “You leave that sort of analysis up to me. It’s why I get paid the big bucks.” He smiles at both of us, and Sydney and I are reassured.

“I’ll handle the situation,” Anton says. “But if you see anything like that again—I suspect you won’t, but if you do—you can always come to me. Understand?”

“Yes,” we say. Anton puts his hand on Sydney’s arm, rubbing it for moment to warm her up.

“Let’s keep this between us,” Anton says. “It’s a private matter. Now,” he adds with a smile, “the party’s over, girls. Go back to your rooms.”

We thank him for his help and he walks inside, leaving the door open for us to follow. He’s hurried, and we watch as he goes immediately to Guardian Bose. I wonder aloud if they’re going to look for Mr. Wolfe to confront him.

Sydney takes my hand, and together we go inside just as the other girls are saying goodbye to their parents. We all end up heading upstairs at the same time. Sydney and I don’t mention what happened with Rebecca to the others; Anton said it was a private matter.

But I feel relieved, glad my concern wasn’t unwarranted. It would be disrespectful to publicly accuse a man of inappropriate behavior—worse than any crime. At least that’s what Professor Penchant told us in Modesty and Decorum earlier this year.

I’m exhausted as we reach our floor. Sydney drops my hand after we say good night and walks to her room.

I pause a moment outside Lennon Rose’s door, considering knocking and checking on her. But she’s probably asleep, so I decide it’s best not to bother her. Anton insisted that I give her space.

The buzz from the wine still isn’t gone, but it’s no longer a lightness. Instead, it’s heavy and thick. Cloudy.

Inside my room, I strip off my dress and toss it over the desk chair, even though I should hang it up. The school will collect our dresses tomorrow. We never keep anything.

I pull on my pajamas, and when I walk toward my bed, I see my vitamins waiting on my nightstand—two pinks and one green. My dose is still off. Maybe I’ll ask Anton about it at our next therapy session.

I swallow down my pills with a sip of lukewarm water and click off the lamp on the nightstand. I crawl under the cool covers and curl up on my side, knowing I’ll have to change my pillowcase in the morning because tonight’s makeup will be smeared on it.

As the wine settles in my veins, making me sleepy, I replay the night in my mind. It’s hard to grasp that Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe have met before, all of this going on without us knowing. How many other girls are kissing their lawyers? Whispering secrets in line? Meeting boys beyond the fence?

There’s the creak of a door opening in the hallway. I listen until footsteps stop outside my closed door, followed by a sharp knock.

I shift my gaze around the room, noticing my dress carelessly thrown over the back of my chair, my shoes piled on top of each other. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t properly prepare for bed.

“Come in,” I call softly.

Guardian Bose steps into my room, his body in silhouette. He doesn’t say anything at first, and I tug up my sheet to tuck it under my arms. “Yes?” I ask.

He moves farther into my room, and I see that he’s holding a small, white paper cup reserved for vitamins. He sets it next to the glass on my nightstand.

“Anton sent this up,” the Guardian says. He motions toward the cup, and I realize he intends to wait until I take it.

I glance into the cup and see one yellow capsule. I pinch it out, studying it in the dim light. I don’t remember taking this color before. I wonder what it does.

Guardian Bose shifts on his feet, impatient. “In my lifetime, Philomena,” he says.

I set the pill on my tongue, sip from the water, and gulp down the capsule while Guardian Bose watches.

When I’m done, I lie back in my blankets. Despite the water, the yellow pill has left a coating on my tongue.