“Okay … So then why are we both going on this visit?” I ask. What I really want to say is Get a move on.

“The baby’s name is Buster,” she says, dodging my question. She pauses, relishing the Floyd baby’s name, hoping I’ll laugh at it, but I don’t. “Earlier this week, they left him outside in the car while they went into the post office. Some Good Samaritan called it in. We’ll go out to their house, have a quick peekaboo and that’ll be it. We’ll be in and out, brussels sprout.”

Her phrasing catches me off guard. “In and out so fast when they left a baby abandoned in a car? How long was he alone for?”

“Come on, Alex, you know the drill,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t assume the kid is in danger just because some stranger said so. I need you there with me to fairly assess things, and we need proof of abuse or neglect.”

Abuse or neglect. Suddenly I can’t touch my latte. “How old is Buster?”

“Oh, a year at the most, I think.” Minerva looks at me quizzically. “Are you okay?”

No, Minerva, I’m not okay, I want to say. As many cases as we resolve in child protection—kids living in horrible circumstances who we rescue and give a chance at a better life—new cases pop up at double the rate. I feel like Mickey Mouse in that old cartoon, the one we had to watch as kids after school was out. Mickey’s in the sorcerer’s workshop, and it’s flooding, and the mops are out of control, and yet no matter how hard he tries, the water keeps pouring in, backing Mickey up the stairs. I hated that cartoon the first time I saw it, but it was always Ruth’s favorite.

“Can we get going?” I stand up.

“Oh, all right then,” she says, exhaling. “Although it wouldn’t hurt to relaxez-vous for a minute. You’ll be on stress leave in no time, just like everyone else, if you keep trying to save the world.”

I ignore her and head for the door.

The Floyd property is on dilapidated farmland off Highway 4. Minerva drives too fast out of town in our government vehicle. She has music playing on Sirius like it’s high summer and we’re heading to the beach.

“Hey,” she says, adjusting the rearview mirror, which has been nowhere near her line of vision the entire journey. “Have you seen Sully recently?”

“What?” I stare at her. Hooked around the front of me, my satchel feels like a shield.

“You know, Sully Mills? Handsome cop with the piercing eyes. Aren’t you two buddies?”