I slip away from the table as Morris asks Evelyn how’s she feeling, if she’s been sleeping any better, and I walk down the narrow hallway past Buster’s room again. She’s straightened that up, too, and bought him a wooden train set. The engine’s on the window ledge, but the carriages spill downward haphazardly. Instead of heading into the bathroom, I go a little farther along and poke my head into the Floyds’ bedroom. It’s basic: a mattress on the floor, a bedside lamp without a shade. She’s pulled the bedding straight, but it’s filthy and graying at the edges.

I enter the room. There has to be something here. I just know it. My eyes follow the line of empty beer bottles under the window. So they’re drinking. The place is a mess, clothes everywhere, plastic bags littered across the floor. I look back at the hallway, panicked. I don’t have much time. I search under the bed, thinking that’s surely where they’d hide anything. Yes, that has to be it. Bingo. Morris just needs to look properly. I hurry back past the bathroom, ducking in to flush the toilet, and arrive at the kitchen table. I feel a bit unsteady, as though the linoleum is rippling under me.

“Have you been using all the supports we set up?” Minerva is asking. “I know you’ve completed the We Can’t All Be Perfect program. Was that very helpful to you?”

“It was all right.”

“I’m really so happy to hear that. And the house looks amazing!”

She has no idea, but before I can say anything, Buster cries out. He’s knocked his head against the leg of the table.

“You’re all right, Bust. You’re all right, big man.” Evelyn shunts him farther away from the table. He barely cries.

“He seems very capable of self-soothing, Evelyn. That’s a good sign.” Minerva leans out from her chair, and I take the opportunity to catch Morris’s eye. It’s now or never. I gesture for him to go look around.

He takes the hint. “I’ll just use the washroom before we head out.”

Evelyn looks up from Buster as Morris stands and moves down the corridor. “You people don’t have a bathroom at work or what?” She wipes her nose with her sleeve.

“Where did you say Mr. Floyd was again?” I ask.

She crosses her arms on her chest. “What does it matter? We’ve done all the shit you told us to.”

“No, you’re doing fabulously,” Minerva says. “Just like I knew you would.”

“Minerva …,” I begin, but she’s steamrolling ahead.

“I don’t think we need to wait for Frank.” Minerva stands up. “I’m entirely satisfied with what I see.”

Just then, Morris wanders back from the hallway. He’s frantically smoothing his tie flat.