Poppy crouched by the flower-covered clubhouse door and watched the babysitter set up a snack basket on the grass. Cookies, cupcakes, juice boxes — all of it arranged near the baby's blanket. Poppy got a dry cracker. She tightened her fist around her crayon. The group she was building needed more proof, and today she would collect it. The babysitter scooped up the golden puppy with the black bow and tucked it under the baby's arm. She used the soft voice. The fake one. She kissed the baby's head and arranged the puppy toy just so, like a picture for someone who hadn't arrived yet. Then Poppy's dad came through the gate. He stopped walking. He smiled at the snack basket, the baby, the puppy, the babysitter kneeling in the flowers like a kind story. "Look how sweet," he said. The babysitter beamed. Poppy stood up from behind the clubhouse, cracker crumbs on her shirt, and her dad's eyes slid right past her. Poppy walked back inside without a word. She pulled out her paper and drew the basket, the puppy, the baby, and herself — small, in the corner, holding one cracker. She underlined the cracker three times. Tomorrow the playground. Tomorrow two more kids. The picture would talk when her dad wouldn't look.