The reception area is empty, but on every wall are signs about noise, about cell phones, about consideration of others’ sanctity. A basket of stuffed toys sits brimming in the corner. I wonder how many kids have to spend unexplained hours in the waiting room. Next to the stuffed animals is a plastic xylophone with a bright red hammer. That’s asking for trouble. A poster of a skeletal tree growing against a backdrop of uplifting green is pinned to the front of the main desk. Pain is real, the slogan reads, but so is hope. The bottom of the poster has been ripped entirely in half, but someone’s attempted to put it back together again with Scotch tape. As I approach the desk, the woman behind it takes a deep, melancholy breath. She’s about sixty, clearly eking out the last of her union-required shifts before she can escape into a pension.

“Can I help you?” she says.

“Hi, my name’s Alex Van Ness.” I reach into my bag and pull out my social worker ID, hoping to prove that I’m privy to any kind of information I require. “I’m with Family Services. We’re following up on an active case, and I need the mental-health records of two of your clients.”

She stares at me through the smeared lenses of her glasses. “If you want information, there’s a legal process. You can’t just walk in here and take files.”

“I realize that. And I’ll get all the legal paperwork. I was just passing by your office, though, and I thought I’d get a jump on things.”

She snorts, a wet noise. “Let me see if we even have the records. What are the names?”

“Frank and Evelyn Floyd.”

One finger at a time, she pushes buttons on her computer keyboard. I don’t believe the Mental Health: Let’s Talk badge she’s been made to wear on her linty sweater. She’s the last person I’d ever want to talk to.

“Have you got the clients’ signed consent?” she asks.

“No, not yet. But we’re planning to run a psych assessment. Parental capacity. Court-ordered. So we won’t need their consent.” There’s no way I’ll get a psych assessment past Morris: they cost thousands of dollars. “So can I get a quick look at the files? You know, just to get the lay of the land?”

“Not. Even. A maybe.” She presses one button per word, tutting.

“Listen, there’s a child in danger. It’s an active Family Services file …” It’s hard to keep my voice even, to avoid betraying my frustration at this lump, this human barrier.

“I don’t care if it’s an active bomb, dear. You’re not touching it.”

Beneath the level of the desk, I grip my own thumb and squeeze.