“The little boy. Beautiful little boy.”

Sully sighs. He knows I’m too involved, but he doesn’t press me. “Trust your instincts. Remember that case a month ago? You were right about those parents. If you feel Minerva’s approaching it ineffectively or too laxly, take it to Morris. He gets what you do. You’re his best social worker.”

I try to protest, but he keeps talking.

“No, you are. He’d listen. Just … document everything. Cover yourself. We protect the ones we can, right? Breathe new life into them? But some kids suffocate, no matter what we do.”

Suffocate. The truth of this hits me right in the throat, and for a moment, it’s like I can’t breathe.

“Okay?” he says, and he lays his palm flat next to mine, a comforting gesture. I wish he were actually touching me. I feel a surge of warmth.

“Thanks, Sully. I’ll talk to Morris.” I take a short sip of tea. “It’s hard to explain this stuff to anyone else. At work, they just pull out the official rulebook and tell me to back away, stay neutral, do less. But somebody has to do something. Somebody has to.”

“It’s an important job, helping those kids. I’m right with you. And don’t second-guess how good you are at it. The trick is to make sure your head’s above water so you can keep going—one appalling situation at a time.”

I nod.

“And as for trying to explain your work, I wouldn’t even try,” he says. “We’re a different breed, you and I. We’re ghost dogs at the gates. Most people in Moses River will never have the first clue about what we’re guarding and why.”

We sit silently for a few seconds. His hand is still near mine. Capable hands, curved and vital.

“What’s your book about?” I ask.

“Oh, this old thing?” He retrieves and holds up a copy of Far from the Madding Crowd. “It’s about two people who should be together but aren’t.”

I laugh because it’s his favorite joke to summarize books in one sentence. It’s a story of two people who should be together but aren’t. It’s a tale of loss and loneliness. It’s about a stranger who comes to town. He puts the novel away again and watches me.

“What else is bothering you?” he asks.

The thing about Sully is he’s always switched on, reading people. He’s the slightly scruffy, affable guy you accidentally tell everything to at a dinner party, thinking he can’t really be listening. But he is. He knows you. Deeply.

I rotate my cup in a slow circle. “Yesterday was a bad night. My big sister showed up at my door.”

Now he really looks surprised. “You have a sister? How has this never come up before?”