“Today’s children should be taught how to paint,” Beth mumbled around her cigarette. She scribbled on a clipboard, then clicked Beethoven’s Fifth with the retractable pen.

“Not again,” I groaned. “We don’t need any more aspiring Van Goghs cutting their ears off.” I barely caught her clipboard before it hit my chest.

Her cigarette flared, and smoke puffed from her nose like the angry bulls you see on cartoons. Since her demotion, everything I said was a big red cape to her.

“Not fine art, idiot. I meant walls. Look around. Think of how a work force of twenty children with rollers could improve this place!”

“Don’t you remember the cleaning crew last week? Physical labor is too much for them. Their strengths lie in their minds. You know that.”

She dropped the butt and ground it into the linoleum with her bedazzled pink tennis shoes. “Don’t you wonder . . .”

“What? You can tell me.”

She made eye contact for the first time that day, just long enough to make sure I was watching her when she rolled her eyes.

“Seriously. I’m sorry about the kid . . .”

“Daphne.”

“Yes, Daphne. I’m sorry I ratted you out, but you know what happens when you withhold that kind of information.”

Her lip curled. She looked over her shoulder and hissed, “Yeah, well, you didn’t think about what they’d do to me for keeping one of them!”

I shrugged. “Hey, that was your decision. You know these kids are created for one-day use. Daphne could have killed you. Or worse, me. You saw how crazy she got by day four. It wasn’t going to work.”

Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, snatching the clipboard back from me. “So, if you don’t have a better idea, today’s children will be taught how to paint . . . the walls. Tomorrow’s children will continue the missile design.”