Outside, the sky is trying for an early blue. It’s June, but there’s still a 7:00 a.m. gray that leaks slowly into color. In this Colorado town, we’re never too far from the creep of the glacier, a silent advance I can’t help but find sinister. Chase, though, he loves everything about the mountains. On my way to the walk-in closet, I trail a fingertip across the tall canvas print of him by the front door, a professional shot of his body upside down on the mountain, hucking a twenty-foot drop on skis. I could never do that, wouldn’t even know where to begin. But he’s good in environments that I’d find daunting. He rarely ponders such things as his own mortality. Behind him, snow wisps delicately to eclipse the sun. I have to admit it’s a beautiful photo.

Once I’ve pulled on skinny jeans and a T-shirt that isn’t too crumpled, I grapple my hair into a topknot and grab my khaki jacket and my old leather satchel. I lift the satchel over my head so the strap lies diagonal across the front of me. My Vans are by the front door, and I kick my feet into them, wondering if at twenty-five it might be time to buy shoes that aren’t best suited to the average fourteen-year-old boy. But my job doesn’t require a corporate dress code. As a child-protection social worker, it’s best if I look relatable.

Tucked away in the Rocky Mountains, Moses River is isolated in the winter months, but now the trees along the sidewalk are in bloom, the buds bulging with optimism. Locals mill about on Main Street, coffee in tall travel cups as they lean against their parked trucks. Wheels of mountain bikes hook over every tailgate—if there’s bustle, it isn’t work-related. Life is beautiful reads more than one bumper sticker. But ask any social worker in this town and they’ll tell you life around here is a lot of things, not all of them beautiful. But we’re trying. We’re trying for the kids who don’t believe the bumper stickers, for the kids who live the truth.

As I walk up Main, I think about Minerva’s email from last night. It was hassled and hurried as usual, but she told me there was a report of negligence involving a little boy and his parents, a couple called the Floyds. I haven’t heard the name before, but from the tone of the email, it seemed like she was familiar with them. If she wants me on board, the case must be an ugly one. It always is when there’s a baby involved. A little baby boy.