I peered in. Greg was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him, his attention focused away from me, on a small boy with bright blonde hair who was curled into a ball. Greg was stroking the boy’s head and talking lightly, trying to encourage the boy to uncoil. The boy wasn’t buying it.

The new charge, I guessed. The one who’d stabbed his mother this morning. He was tucked in on himself, trying to block everything out. This couldn’t be happening to him. This strange room, this strange place, these strange people talking at him over and over again.

“Mommy,” the boy whispered. “I want my mommy.”

My heart contracted. First words spoken by so many children over so many years. Even from the kids whose mothers beat the shit out of them.

“I know,” Greg replied steadily.

“Take me home.”

“Can’t do that, buddy.”

“You could stay with me. Like we’ve done before.”

I stilled. Like they’d done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

“You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We’re going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don’t worry. This is a nice place. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Mommy,” the boy said again.

Greg didn’t reply.

“I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”

The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

“I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”

“You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”

“Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”

The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath—”

“I ruined the sofa!”

“Evan—”

“I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”

The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh …”