“I didn’t want to frighten you more than you already are,” he said. “They are unmarked cars. Two men are stationed at the corner of their school street from eight to four.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, laminated card.

“This is the direct number for the lead guard,” he said, holding it out. “His name is Marcus. If you see anything unusual, call him.”

I took the card from his fingers, careful not to let our hands touch.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You don’t have to thank me for protecting our children,” he said.

He looked past me into the bright, messy workspace.

The smell of oil paint and old canvas drifted out into the cold hallway.

“May I come in?” he asked. “Just to help you lift the landscape onto the easel. It is too heavy for you to manage alone.”

I looked at the massive wooden crate sitting in the center of my studio.

My shoulder had been aching from trying to drag it across the floorboards earlier.

“Just the easel,” I said, stepping aside.

“Just the easel,” he agreed.