There’s that card again, her favorite in the stack of superiority. I could retaliate, especially because I know about her son, know he’s estranged and won’t talk to her, but my heart’s begun to race and my palms are sweating. The Hot Wheels car is faded and forlorn and reminds me of misery. Nothing good will come from this house. I wipe my hands on the back of my jeans.

“Okay, ready?” Minerva has her knuckles poised to knock, but the door is open. We walk into a tiny linoleum-floored vestibule that serves as some kind of pantry. Three shelves face us, empty apart from a couple of tins of baked beans, one of them opened with the ragged metal sticking up. The glass of the main door itself is busted as if someone has put an elbow through it. Duct tape crisscrosses the pane.

“Let’s get on with it,” I say.

“Okay. If Frank Floyd comes at us, stay calm. In the old days, he was something of a charging bull.”

I nod, wipe my palms once more on my pants. Nobody answers Minerva’s knock, or the second one.

“Hello?” she calls out. “Anyone home?”

The vestibule smells musty, grainy, with the pungency that always comes with poverty. It’s sour, hoppy, horrific. I cover my mouth with my sleeve. From inside we hear a crash and a shout, the sound of a plate clattering in a circle as it settles. Minerva pushes the rickety door open. She steps inside as Frank Floyd rounds the kitchen counter, leading with the top half of his body.

“I’m coming,” he growls. He wears track pants, rolled at the waist, and a T-shirt that swamps him despite the fact that he’s a huge guy. “Can’t a man take a nap in his own house?” He spots Minerva, clearly recognizing her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go again. Send in the clowns.”

“Mr. Floyd,” Minerva says cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“I do fucking mind, and I don’t remember inviting you in.”

I peep around Minerva, taking in Frank Floyd’s bare feet, the ashtray on the floor, the dishes stacked up in the sink.

“We wanted to make sure everyone was okay in here. How are you doing today? I’m Minerva Cummins—do you remember me? We met years ago, but I’ve changed jobs since then: I’m here with Family Services. This is my coworker Alexandra Van Ness.” Minerva sounds like she’s gritting out a smile.

I still have one hand on the door handle.

“No, no, no,” Frank says, bashing his fist against his own hip with each syllable like a toddler in a tantrum. “You’re not coming in. You’re trespassing. Nobody’s fucking asked you to come here.”