We wait in the kitchen until we see the police cruiser pull up near the driveway. Morris directs everyone outside, then leaves the drugs on the table and the Floyds walk with us to the car. Evelyn trails her fingertips against Buster’s; she’s trying to smile, trying to hold it together. Morris heads over to debrief the police officers, and I notice that neither of them is Sully, which is a shame. I would have liked to have seen him right now. Instead, I strap Buster into the car seat we brought, his dark brown eyes staring at my face the whole time. He’s still holding the dirt-streaked bunny.

Evelyn leans into the back seat to kiss him. “We’ll see you soon!”

Frank has to put his arm around her waist to pull her out. All of it’s heartbreaking, but I just keep thinking, If you care this much, why can’t you try a little harder? Once Morris is done, he walks over and gets into the driver’s seat, takes a deep breath, turns the key in the ignition. The last thing I see of the Floyds, the police are accompanying them into the house.

We drive in silence straight to Buster’s grandmother, all of us breathing out stress. Even Minerva doesn’t speak. Adrenaline sickens my stomach, but I ride in the back seat, dancing the bunny for Buster and holding his hand.

“You’re safe,” I whisper to him. “Beautiful boy.”

I walk home to the loft at 4:00 p.m. feeling drained. I couldn’t eat much for the rest of the day—the sick feeling wouldn’t go away—because as much as the Buster visit was a triumph and a move in the right direction, it’s never uncomplicated. That’s the nature of social work: even the banner days are underscored by tragedy.

When I let myself into the apartment, it’s unusually quiet. Chase isn’t rattling around by the stove; the television’s not on. Ruth is sitting alone on the couch with her mountain of baby things behind her and the contents of her bag splayed untidily across the coffee table. A familiar-looking purse with an antique clasp, a passport, some loose change.

“Ruth?” I say. “What’s going on?”

“He found it,” she says, her eyes dull and flat. “Sorry. I tried to get it back.”

“Found what?” But she’s lumped there like stone. “Chase?” I call, heading toward the bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed. “Is everything all right?”

He looks up, his face ash-gray. He’s holding a small square of paper.

“What’s that?” With a flash of dread, I wonder if Sully’s written me something and Chase has intercepted it. I step toward him and stop. “Chase? Let me see. Is it about Sully?”

His eyes widen further.