I flush the toilet, or try to, my jacket sleeve low over my fingers. Back out in the corridor, Evelyn is waiting for me, bouncing her son. We walk in silence to the door, where Minerva is standing with Frank.

“All set?” Minerva asks. She’s working herself up to a chipper goodbye and makes another attempt to hand over her business card. “So we’ll be in touch. The future is bright. Don’t worry: we’ll work on all of this as a team.”

Neither of the Floyds take her card. She sets it on the counter.

“Please call if you need immediate help or assistance.” Minerva waves as she backs away down the porch steps.

We leave them both there in the doorway, Buster obscured by the sinewy arms of his mom.

In the car, Minerva turns to me. “That went well.” She snatches at levers on each side of the steering wheel, trying to find the left signal.

“What?”

“That whole visit. Didn’t you think? They’re doing so much better. I feel we can help them.”

She’s out of her mind. If she thinks Buster is safe in that environment, she’s nothing but another risk factor in his life. “Minerva, their house was awful. That smell?”

“What smell?” She turns the car around, making traffic slow as she swerves into the right-hand lane.

“Like old beer. Like grain at harvest.” I shudder.

“Haven’t you gotten used to that yet?” she asks.

“No, and I don’t want to. How are you okay with the situation that child is in? There were definite signs of neglect.”

“Be careful with that term,” she says quickly. “Just because the Floyds are struggling doesn’t mean they don’t love their son, or can’t look after him. They need some scaffolds around them.”

I find my fingers clenching and jam them under my thighs. Minerva might have more years on the job than I do, but in all that time she hasn’t figured out that child protection is an oxymoron. Even when we save kids or remove them, workers like her throw them back into the fray. Safe enough is her motto, but it isn’t mine. We drive too fast in silence.

After a while, I can’t help myself. “They don’t even change his diapers!” I say. “I bet he has welts all over his backside if we’d bothered to look.” I know I sound petulant, but I don’t care. Because I’m the one doing my job properly. I’m trying to protect a child.

“You know the rules. There were no grounds for removal, Alex. They weren’t high on drugs. Which, incidentally, I’m very proud about. And there were no signs of abuse. They just seem overwhelmed.” Her hands whiten at the knuckle where she grips the steering wheel. “Loving someone and protecting them aren’t always the same thing.”