Morris suggested that I avoid the hearing today; Minerva, newly returned from her trip, outright forbid it. As far as I’m aware—huge pause for her nostrils to flare—you’re still not the lead on this case. But I’m invested in it. I rescued Buster—I stuck my neck out, not her—and I have every right to be there for the verdict.

I walk through the tunnel that connects our building to the courthouse and climb the stairs to the main level, where everything smells fusty and sour like the wood of old church pews. Court is in session. I slip in at the back and take a seat. At the front of the room are Morris and Minerva, and then up high is the judge—it’s Vickers, a no-nonsense woman in her sixties. That bodes well. I couldn’t have picked a better judge myself. To the left, I can see the bulk of Frank Floyd’s shoulders and the bony little rack of Evelyn. Janeen must have stayed home with Buster.

Judge Vickers is midflow in her monologue. “Overnight I’ve again reviewed the minutiae of this case, including the testimonials given yesterday and all the various reports. It is a case full of conflicted opinion, riddled with struggle, overshadowed by doubt. The finding of drugs in the home is, however, quite certain. It is a fact, and it is troubling. With that in mind, it is my decision that the child will be best served by remaining in the care of the maternal grandmother until such time as Family Services can find him a forever home. The court is thus awarding continuing custody of Buster Kevin Floyd to Family Services.”

At the back of the room, I close my eyes and smile. There are families all over the state hoping and praying for a low-needs child like Buster. Fresh parents—healthy ones—who will give him a clean and safe home, who will take him to speech therapy, buy him fresh diapers, give him more than one toy in his room. By the time he’s five, he’ll barely remember that he lived any differently. I did it. I saved that little boy.

Suddenly, I hear Frank roar from the front of the court. “This is bullshit! People change! We’re clean!” His fist thumps the top of the table.

“I would ask you to improve your language, Mr. Floyd. If you are unable to control yourself in my court, you will be forcibly removed—”

“You’re all in it together!” he bellows, his shoulders clenched high near his ears. “This is a conspiracy!”

Judge Vickers motions toward the security guard, and he leads Frank from the court. I slip through the back door of the courtroom and wait in the foyer. When Morris emerges a few minutes later, I step out and wave. He heads straight my way.