“The house will be fine. They’re entirely on track now.” Minerva fixes her eyes straight ahead. “For the record, Alex, your suggestion to Morris that Evelyn Floyd has an ongoing drug problem is wildly inaccurate. It’s comments like that that throw us off track and give us a bad name.”

“Give us a bad name?” I say.

“Yes. Us. Those of us who work to protect children. We’re called nitpickers, government drones, Family Stealers rather than Family Services.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say.

“At any rate,” Morris cuts in from the back, “we’ll just check in with the Floyds today, have a quick look around and make sure they’re using all the supports we’ve set up for them. I’m sure Buster is doing well and that it’ll all be fine.” He smears one palm against the other. “But just in case, are there any healthy family members in the area? You know, if things start to go a bit pear-shaped?”

I smile to myself. There it is. I knew it wouldn’t take Morris long. He’s by-the-book and never strays from it. Whenever a child is removed, it’s always his first step to look for a healthy relative to take custody. A grandmother, an aunt, a long-lost cousin—anyone within the child’s bloodline who’s not a complete train wreck. If the birth parents don’t consent to that plan, our office will organize a family conference to try to find a resolution out of court. The meetings are usually tense and rarely successful. In most cases, it takes a judge to decide where the child will end up. But for Buster it’s a good sign Morris is even asking. It means that the wheels are already in motion.

“There’s a maternal grandmother in Crow’s Pass,” Minerva sniffs. “But we won’t need her.”

“Good,” says Morris. “I’m sure you’re right.”

As soon as we’ve parked, it’s clear straightaway that the home has been tidied up, at least a little. No shoes lie straggled along the path, and although the gate still has the Big Dog Bites sign on it, they’ve turned it so it faces inward.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” I say, “how different a house looks when they know we’re coming?”

Minerva says nothing, but marches ahead of Morris and me until she reaches the porch, which has been swept. There are no heaps of cigarette butts in a cat litter tray anymore, but they haven’t replaced the broken door. Minerva gently knocks on the cracked windowpane. After a few seconds, Evelyn comes to the door with a button-up shirt tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She’s holding Buster, whose diaper is entirely concealed in thick flannel pants. Both of them are overdressed for July.

“What?” she asks, looking from face to face. Does she remember who we are?