Within four weeks, the nighttime work led to daytime progress, with Ozzie appearing calmer. Within two months, the boy had mastered the art of deep breathing, picturing seven angels giving him seven hugs. Within three months, he could produce his own protection barrier and his parents began weaning him off his medication, working with the consent of Ozzie’s doctor, Lightfoot had assured them.

“Powerful, powerful soul,” Lightfoot had said with apparent awe. “It is a beautiful thing to watch such a soul find itself again.”

D.D. had brought up the subject of Ozzie murdering neighborhood squirrels.

“A learning opportunity,” Lightfoot had informed her. “No one heals overnight. For every step forward, there are steps backwards.”

She decided the man loved his one-liners. And she decided that overwhelmed, stressed-out mothers must devour his words hook, line, and sinker. A televangelist for the alternative-medicine set.

“I think Lightfoot believes in what he does,” D.D. told Alex. “And … I think his kind of charisma combined with his kind of looks is a pretty dangerous combo. Strong man. Weak parents. My bullshit meter hit an all-time high.”

Alex cut off another piece of fudge. “Why?”

“Are you kidding me? Interplanes, spiritual healings, angel hugs. These kids have violent impulses. They bludgeon fathers, shoot mothers, stab siblings. I think they might need more than deep-breathing exercises.”

“What’s the more?” Alex asked with a shrug. “Remember nurse Danielle from the psych ward? Modern medicine doesn’t know what to do with these kids either. Not enough available medicines, too many side effects. I don’t know. I’ve never meditated a day in my life, but if I had a kid going crazy and the docs told me they were out of options … Sure, I’d give Lightfoot a call. Meditating isn’t gonna hurt a child. Nor is vegetable broth or organic fruits or nighttime visits to the interplanes. You can’t blame the parents for trying.”

“Exactly the danger,” D.D. said flatly.

Alex regarded her steadily. “You don’t buy any of it? What about his spiel on negative and positive personalities? I gotta say, my Aunt Jeanine could drive the president of the Optimist Club to suicide. That woman’s the walking, talking personification of a downer. I can believe she’s sending negative energy out into the universe.”

“Big leap from naturally happy or sad people to nighttime surfing of the spiritual superhighway.”

“I think cops know woo-woo,” Alex continued. “At least the good ones.”

“Instinct is instinct, not woo-woo,” D.D. said.

“Ah no. A lot of people would argue instinct is exactly woo-woo.”

“And they would be wrong. Instinct is evolutionary in nature. Darwinism one-oh-one. Those who can pick out the bad guys first live longer. And eventually produce generations of fine policing talent.”

Alex leaned forward, wiped a spot of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. “Shaman boy got to you,” he repeated.