Mickey said, “If you don’t want to go inside—”

“Mickey,” Myron said, cutting him off. “You’re not helping.”

He said in an angry sotto voce: “Can’t you see she’s scared?”

“I know she’s scared,” Myron said. “But you’re not helping. Let the people here do their job.”

Kitty clung to her son and said, “Mickey?”

Part of Myron felt great sympathy for Kitty. A far bigger part of Myron wanted to rip her away from her son and kick her selfish ass through the door.

Mickey moved toward Myron. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“I’m not leaving her here.”

“Yeah, Mickey, you are. It’s that or I call the cops or social services or whoever else.”

But now Myron could see that it wasn’t just Kitty who was scared. It was Mickey. He was, Myron reminded himself, still a kid. Myron flashed back to those happy family photographs—Dad, Mom, Only Son. Mickey’s father had since vanished someplace in South America. His mother was about to go through a heavy security door and enter the harsh solo world of detoxification and drug rehabilitation.

“Don’t worry,” Myron said as gently as he could. “We’ll take care of you.”

Mickey made a face. “Are you for real? You think I want your help?”

“Mickey?”

It was Kitty. He turned to her, and suddenly the roles were back to where they should have been: Kitty was the mother and Mickey was her child again. “I’ll be fine,” she said in as firm a voice as she could muster. “You go and stay with your grandparents. You come back and see me as soon as you can.”

“But—”

She put her hands on his face again. “It’s okay. I promise. You’ll visit soon.”

Mickey lowered his face into her shoulder. Kitty held him for a moment, looking past him at Myron. Myron nodded that he’d be fine. The nod gave her no solace. Kitty finally pulled away and headed to the door without another word. She waited for the receptionist’s buzz and then disappeared inside.

“She’ll be fine,” Christine Shippee said to Mickey, finally a little tenderness in her voice.

Mickey turned and stomped out the door. Myron followed him. He clicked the remote, unlocking the car door. Mickey reached to open the back door. Myron clicked the remote again, locking it on him.

“What the hell?”

“Get in the front,” Myron said. “I’m not a chauffeur.”

Mickey slid into the front passenger seat. Myron started up the car. He turned to Mickey, but the kid had the iPod jammed back into his ears. Myron tapped the kid’s shoulder.

“Take them off.”

“Really, Myron? Is that how you think we’re playing this?”