In 1969 he graduated medical school. He also received his black belt in karate. He did two years' internship at Harlem ‹ Hospital, one year on the emergency ward and one year in the children's ward.

After graduation he had his tattoo removed by a plastic surgeon and changed his name to Harris. In 1971 he became a resident at Jacobi on the children's ward. His ultimate goal was to become a child psychiatrist. His special interest was the battered child syndrome. In all his years at Harlem Hospital and at Jacobi, he had seen maybe three or four kids more terrified than Albert De Coco.

On Thursday, when Doctor Harris looked in on Albert he was watching cartoons on a portable TV and sipping apricot juice through a straw. The inside of his elbow was blotched yellow-brown from the two days of intravenous feeding.

"Hiya, Albert." Albert smiled but didn't say anything. The doctor sat down on the bed. "How we feeling tonight?"

"O.K."

"You mind if I turn off the TV for a few minutes?" He reached over and shut it off. "I have some good news, kiddo, tomorrow you're going home!"

Albert's face tightened. A fleeting look of pure terror. "Can I take these comics?" he asked, motioning to a stack of Supermans a volunteer aide had given him.

"I don't see why not." Harris smiled. He felt troubled by Albert's reaction. "You still don't remember what happened Monday?"

Albert stared at him blankly, tucking his blanket closer around his body.

"Did you have any bad dreams last night?"

"Uh-uh." Albert looked over the doctor's shoulder. From Albert's dreams, Harris knew whatever had happened that day involved Marie. He didn't buy the bullshit about Albert waking up screaming. He watched Albert's response to his mother when she visited him. That cowering expression gave him the chills. He was sure that bitch did something and he was sure Albert was lying when he denied remembering what happened. He knew all the crap about the cyclical nature of brutality and you had to have been brutalized as a kid to be brutal as an adult and all that, but the buck had to stop somewhere and he also knew a stone psychopath when he saw one, and that was Marie. When he discussed Albert with her, he knew she was lying through her teeth, but he had to be nice, he couldn't scare her or corner her because that kid's only hope, short of leaving home, was analysis with a good child psychologist, and he knew from experience if parents felt too threatened by what the therapy might reveal, they would never grant permission. He didn't want to send Albert home, and he knew Albert didn't want to go, but there was no medical or legal excuse to keep him. He checked about keeping Albert for treatment of his anorexia, but it wasn't severe enough. Besides, how much longer could they keep him, even for that? Eventually, Albert would have to go home. So instead Harris had to smile, eat Marie's shit and hope she would give permission for Albert to sign in at the psychiatric clinic as an outpatient. The father was no help—it was clear he didn't give a shit either way. He would agree to whatever his wife decided. It was too bad that the older son had no say. That kid was the only thing keeping Albert alive.