“I see two people trying very hard, two people who are nearing the end of their resources.” Frank and Evelyn stare at her. “We’re going to offer you some support services. Ways to make this whole thing a bit easier, so you’re not”—she glances around at the debris of their house—“struggling so much. And we’ll do a follow-up home visit. Just to see how you’re getting on.”

“Do we have to?” Frank asks. “Do we have to use the services? Do you have to come back?”

“Don’t you want the help?” I ask, my eyes drilling into his.

He shrugs. So does his wife.

Minerva smiles like we’ve all just agreed on a fabulous business deal. “Great. So we’ll head out now, but we’ll be in touch soon, once we organize some supports. You’re doing very well. We’ll just help you do a bit of a cleanup of Buster and … your home. And no more leaving him alone in the car.”

“All right,” Evelyn says. “All right already.”

Minerva gets up. Is that it? She’s the senior worker here. Why is she not doing more of an inspection? Are we really going to leave the child in this filth?

Slowly I stand. “Could I just use the bathroom?” I ask. “You can lead me there. I won’t go poking around.”

Evelyn sighs. “I’ll take her.”

Buster grips her neck as she stands. He’s entirely devoid of language, a red flag in one-year-olds. We move down a skinny hallway toward the bathroom, Evelyn behind me. When I turn to look at her, her eyes are beady and granite black. In a flash, I’m back in my dream, those fingernails behind me, about to grab. Will she pull me to the ground like Ruth does? I swallow hard, and we pass a bedroom that must be Buster’s. Quickly I glance in. There’s no furniture at all in the room apart from a standing bassinet. One stuffy lies on the floor—a blue bunny, the ears so sucked and slimy with grime that the fur looks like it’s been pulled through an engine.

“Bathroom’s this one.” Evelyn tugs at my jacket, and I jump. “Push harder,” she says, doing so for me.

I go in and close the door behind me, moving a heavy black garbage bag away with my leg. There’s no shower curtain, no soap. I breathe deeply with my eyes closed for a few seconds because my sister is everywhere.

There’s a white bathroom cabinet over the sink, and I pull open the smudged front of it, rattling among lidless Tylenol bottles and brown-tinged Q-tips for some clear evidence of a drug habit. There’s nothing. They’re hiding it elsewhere. Goddamn it, I think.