Rav Alter took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. “As you know, many young people in our community are having difficulties. This is a confusing time in the world, with so much pritzus, so many temptations. The internet … We need to protect our children.”

They nodded approvingly. If anything, they looked even more perplexed, Rav Alter noted, floundering, then having no choice, pushing ahead as best he could. “So as one of the heads of this community, I am talking to the parents of teenagers who are seeing rabbinically approved counselors, to see if it is helping them, and if we should send other children. I understand your daughter is going to see Rav Yoel Grub?”

“Who is spreading such things about us?” the father asked, absolutely furious.

It was not only the therapist, Rav Alter realized, but the idea that they might need charity. Oy vey! I need to learn to be a more accomplished liar! “Please, please. This is completely private; you can rely on me never to tell anyone.”

“But, k’vod harav, how did you find out?” the mother persisted.

“Just by chance, someone whose own child was also going to Grub saw your daughter coming out of his office. She was crying. He heard Grub call out her name. This person was so concerned that he shared this with me in the strictest confidence and wanted to find out if your daughter is all right.”

They were shocked, he saw, and yet clearly relieved as well. Someone in the same boat wasn’t likely to spread rumors that could come back to bite them. That their daughter had been in distress was clearly secondary.

“Has she said anything to you?” Rav Alter asked.

“No, not a word.”

“And has Rav Grub helped her?”

He could see the parents exchanging confused looks. “She is a quiet girl who doesn’t share much. Maybe it would be better for k’vod harav to ask her himself?” The father signaled to the mother, who got up and went into the bedroom. When she returned, a girl no more than a child was with her. She seemed like a small, skittish night creature longing to scurry beneath the nearest bush. She looked very young and very scared.

“Say shalom to K’vod Harav Alter, Menucha Sarah,” the father demanded.

“Shalom,” the girl whispered, not looking up.

“He wants to ask you some things about Rav Grub.”

For the first time, she raised her head. She looked terrified, Rav Alter registered.

“Please, Menucha Sarah, don’t be afraid! You haven’t—chas v’shalom—done anything wrong. This won’t take long, and it would be a big help to me.”

Reluctantly, she sat down.

“Can you tell me if Rav Grub’s office has windows?”

She seemed relieved. “No,” she exhaled, shaking her head.

“And how many doors are there into his office?”

“Two,” she said softly.