Tobey's probably going to fall off of the jungle gym.

It's 68% that he will. It's 32% that he won't.

I usually intervene when the probability is above 60%. I try to be a good kindergarten teacher.

But Tobey is so clumsy. Almost as clumsy as I am. He needs to get better at climbing, and if I want him to be better, I need to let him try.

I worry for him, though. The sight of children doing potentially dangerous stuff makes me extra anxious, and they always do things like that.

Being a kindergarten teacher is probably not my dream job. But, on the other hand, I kinda like them. They're cute. In a silly way, like a corgi or a wombat. I like that they have such big heads. They look like cartoon characters. When I see them, I want to burst into song. Hakuna Matata, preferably. And, in fact, I can do that whenever I wish, because it's part of my job.

We're very patient with each other. I tolerate them when they scream. They tolerate me when I sing. We're good.

I also like them when they're asleep. I seriously hate it, though, that they are so huggy. I told them several times that I wasn't their mother, but they don't listen. Being four years old is a reasonable enough excuse for not listening, but sometimes I wish they were adults. Very small adults with big heads. Adults react to direct commands way better, and not only in combat situations.

Tobey's hanging upside down now. The odds don't look good for him. It's 75% that he can't climb back, but it's not like I'm risking his life or something. I'd never do that. The chance of death is 0% in the case of falling. The angle his clumsy little body is forming with the horizontal ground promises a safe landing. I see it. I wouldn't be any good if I didn't.

Still, I have to do my usual stress-reducing exercise to resist the urge to help him. Three taps with my middle finger on my forehead and breathe out. I've been conditioning myself for years, and now it helps to keep my cool in stressful situations.

I tap. I breathe out. Tobey falls down.

Obviously.

Numbers never lie.

I collect him from the ground, and I let him cling to my neck, no matter how much I hate it.

"Miss Edie," he sobs. He's one of the few who speak. He also knows my name.

Miss Edie. That's me, as annoying as it sounds.

I didn't choose it, and neither did my parents. It's the name the Agency's super-secret department for new identities picked for me.

They're terrible at names. Worse than Tobey at sports.

I imagine them as huge adults with very small heads. Not very Hakuna Matata, to say the least.

Maybe being a kindergarten teacher is my dream job, after all.