Minerva Cummins used to work in Mental Health and Addictions before she crossed over to Family Services, and she’s never shaken it off. Every exchange I have with her feels like she’s trying to help me out of some kind of saddening entrenchment. Even as I’m solving problems, she’ll sigh with her eyes closed as if I’m the cause of them. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why her husband divorced her. My boss, Morris, rarely puts me and Minerva together on cases—perhaps because he knows that as one of the older, more experienced social workers on the team, she can be patronizing. She’s a mother, Alex, Morris told me once in his office. But don’t let her mother you.

An unexpected cold blast of air hits me as I round the corner onto Cedar Street, and I jog the next few steps to the Lovin’ Oven bakery. The bell above the robin’s-egg-blue door jingles as I enter, and I’m greeted by the smell of scones. The bakery is compact, with one long counter, various chalkboards on brick with the handwritten names of soups, rows of golden-fresh bread stacked on shelves behind the till, and three rough wooden tables for eating at, all of them rectangular with benches. I do a quick scan of the room as I enter. Minerva’s not here yet. For all the dedication she claims to have, it’s rare that she arrives on time to anything.

Once I’ve bought a coffee, I find a seat at the far end of the long table and wait for her. Over in the corner, two old ladies in matching knitted hats share a pot of tea. For a second, I wonder if they’re sisters. The thought stops my breath.

But then the bell above the door jingles and Minerva strides toward me, corduroy pants chafing noisily as she moves. Her brown bob is still wet from the shower. It looks plastic, like hair you press onto LEGO people.

She stops in front of me at the opposite bench. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Morning,” I say. “Are you ready to go?” I half stand.

“Chill your boots! I need to brief you first, and you know I can’t do anything without a strong coffee.”

Coffee is why she wanted to meet early? I reluctantly sit back down While Minerva orders her drink, then settles into a seat as though we have all the time in the world—all the time in the world when a young child’s well-being is at stake.

“So,” I say, careful to hide my impatience. “Tell me about this baby boy and his parents.”

“Frank and Evelyn Floyd have a history of drugs and alcohol addiction.” She takes a wary first sip of her drink. “Basically they were druggies, troublemakers before they had a child. But they’ve been better since he was born.”