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Ranchers in Wyoming, tired of losing sheep to wild coyotes, implemented an aggressive plan to cull the coyote population. Ten years later, after dozens of successful hunts and hundreds of kills, the coyote population is more than an order of magnitude larger than before the slaughter. In a 750-word essay, discuss the folly of conventional wisdom and the power of expecting the unexpected.

Rory has assimilated to this strange new place much better than I expected. Greenfield is so unlike New York, where we raised him to have the freedom of a city kid, at home in the noise and the chaos, navigating the subway, the park, the occasional crazy street scene. And yet, despite his skills, tenth grade at his tony new public school has him a little baffled.

“Like private school, with a better stock portfolio,” one of the moms whispered to me during Winter Networking Night.

He’d been all set to return to his public school on the Upper West Side, and then the unthinkable happened. Staying in New York didn’t seem feasible—too many reminders of his dad in our tiny apartment, too many reminders of his dad in every shop front along Columbus and Amsterdam, all over Central Park. It wasn’t good for Rory. It wasn’t good for me.

If I’m honest, there were other memories too, buried across New York, that I wanted to escape. The one case, the one source, the one mistake for which I can’t forgive myself.

Before Fred’s accident, I’d planned to take a couple of weeks off, come to my dad’s house alone, handle everything in one fell swoop—settle the will, clean out the house, put it on the market. Now, everything has changed.

“Just for one semester,” I told Rory.

“How can you make me leave my friends right now?” he exploded. “What kind of mom does that?” Then he retreated to his bedroom and didn’t speak to me for three days. But that was the end of it. The fact that he accepted his fate so easily, with so little resistance, made life easier, but it also broke my heart. I sensed he was trying to take care of me, to protect me somehow, when I should, of course, be taking care of him.

My father’s house has never ceased to surprise me. Complicated and enormous, it is as incongruous with my father as the town of Greenfield itself. Population 10,231, average income astonishing, minimum house size three thousand square feet, minimum lot size one acre. According to a school pamphlet that appeared in the mailbox the day after Rory enrolled, “Families are strongly encouraged to donate a minimum of $5,600 per child per year to ensure excellence.” I’ve been trying to figure out how I’ll manage that. This town is not meant for midlevel civil servants.

“I don’t have any actual classes,” Rory tells me over tacos at the end of his first day. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, bowls of meat, cheese, guacamole, and shredded lettuce arranged on the lazy Susan. “At least, not regular classes, math, science, whatever. Instead, the day is divided into seminars focused on the Wonder Test.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s apparently the gold standard of standardized tests. It happens in the spring of tenth grade, and every public school in Silicon Valley is obsessed with it. The kids have been preparing since day one of freshman year. According to our assemblies, which are more like pep rallies, the test is crucial to the teachers, the principal, the parents, the whole town.”

I take a sip of my Modelo. “What about the kids?”

“I’m not sure anyone asked them.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a thick yellow booklet, which he slides across the table. Wonder Test Prep is printed in red on the cover. “We have to do one question per section each day at home, and we spend the first half of each school day analyzing our answers.”

I flip to the table of contents:

Part 1: Analogies

Part 2: Ethicalities

Part 3: Diagrams and Analyses

Part 4: Theories of Global Patterns

Part 5: Future Functionalities

I turn the page and skim the introduction. “According to research published in 2012, well-constructed multiple choice questions trigger a retrieval response that can help encode memories of correct information.” Footnotes reference various articles on the subject, ranging from the impressive (Harvard) to the questionable (Global Institute for the Advancement of Academic Assessment).

I glance at the first question and read aloud: “‘Mars drilling is to Chopin as: (a) polyatomic ions are to mollusks, (b) blue is to brown, (c) Berlin is to Belgrade, or (d) reinforced concrete is to steel.’” The next few pages include complex diagrams and graphs to explain why three of the proposed answers are incorrect.

“Why is it called the Wonder Test? That sounds so new agey.”

“I think it’s the opposite of new agey,” Rory says. “More like Silicon Valley on steroids. ‘Disrupting the educational paradigm: Learning through testing.’ At least that’s what the posters say. All I know is that I need to figure it out. The test is the first week of March. Our school has had the highest scores in the country for the last five years.” He takes a giant bite of his taco, spilling shredded cheese all over the table.

“Whatever happened to chemistry and world history?”

“Mom, that is so ninth grade.”

I consider my next question. Is it wise? I’m not sure, but Rory could use a distraction, and I could use his help. “I have a covert mission for you.”

His eyes light up: “Go on.”

“At school, you might meet a French girl.”