Put like that, the answer was clear. It wasn’t until we stopped and Matthew let go of my right hand that I’d noticed he’d been holding it to begin with. He paid the cabbie and the two of us approached the only deli on the block. One quick casing of the joint revealed that there was definitely no judge and there definitely was going to be amazing store video.

Sandwiched between two narrow rows was a hunchbacked old (very old) man attempting to shove a tin of barbecue potato chips into his pocket. But he didn’t have any pockets and was only wearing loose brown underpants (they’d been tight and white back in the seventies when he bought them, I’m sure). Behind him was a middle-aged African American woman, whom I presumed to be the nurse’s aid. In front of Bob was a freaked-out teenager who’d probably never work at a deli—or anywhere—again.

“Hello,” Matthew announced gingerly.

“Ah, can I help you guys?” the teenager squeaked.

“Ah, yeah, yeah, you can,” I said and smiled, attempting to defuse the situation. “We’re HELGA FRIEDMAN’s assistants and we’ve come to retrieve Bob.” I hoped the mention of Helga Friedman would pacify Bob. Then again, it was hard to imagine how her name could pacify anyone.

The teenager retreated behind the counter, poised to hit an emergency button as if we were about to stick up the joint. Bob looked up at us, his eyes burning with kindness. Matthew removed his own jacket and Bob flinched only slightly as it was draped over his shoulders. I reiterated my message. “Hi Bob, we’re Helga’s assistants. She asked that we come get you. She’s waiting for you at home. She misses you very much and very much wants to see you.”

“This Kris Kringle wants a little Pringle,” Bob mumbled, as Matthew guided him toward the door.

The nurse’s aid came around to the other side of Bob, and all together, we led him out of the deli. The teenager ran out with the can of Pringles, shoved them into my purse, and hailed us a cab, which was no easy task. We had to promise the driver that Bob wouldn’t urinate or defecate in the car.

It was only three blocks to the judge’s home. “We have to get out a block beforehand,” Matthew explained to the nurse’s aid, as I rubbed Bob’s back. “The judge doesn’t know—and cannot know—that we came. Under no circumstances should you tell her. Just tell her that Bob came with you freely,” he instructed as we got out of the taxi.