“Helen,” I said, “it’s all right. She’s just asking.”

“Asking about what?” Helen asked.

“Asking about Perley’s bite, which is healing quite well,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” Helen said. “Are you Perley’s teacher? Are you the police? You don’t look like the police.”

“Are you a student in town?” I asked.

“Graduated,” the girl said. “With my B.A. in social work.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Your mother must be proud.”

“A social worker?” asked Helen. “What do you want with us?”

“I do intake work for Children’s Services,” she said.

“Perley told his teacher about his snakebite,” I said.

“Oh shit, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Helen said.

“It’s healing well,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Kids and their scrapes.” I clasped my hands together until they hurt. I never sat down.

“Where is Perley now? I’d like to talk to him,” the girl said.

Helen looked at me, but I didn’t say anything right away. I had nothing to hide, yet I was hiding, hiding, I was hiding him.

“Where is he?” the intake worker asked.

“There’s a lot of new studies out,” Helen began, “about what they call helicopter parenting. Experts are reexamining the benefits of nonintervention and free play.”

“Dignity of risk,” I said.

“Where is he?” the girl asked.

“He’s playing outside,” I said.

“Alone? In the dark? In the snow?” she asked. “Ms. Marshall. I’m asking you. Do you know where your child is?” She made to get up, but I beat her to it, lunged for the door, escaped onto the porch like fleeing a burning building.

I whooped. I whooped. I whooped. I whooped. I screamed into the woods. It was the screaming I’d grown up with, the hollers of angry grown-ups tearing past all the wolf trees at backyard borders, tearing them apart. I whooped. I didn’t hear back. I despaired.

Then came Perley’s whoop, and then came Perley. He bounded out of the darkness, down onto the porch, hatless and joyful, his small face red, his scar shining purple in the cold. My milk flooded. I lifted him up into my arms.

“There’s someone here to see you,” I said, crushing him as he wriggled free.

“I knew it!” Perley said, glowing up at me. “I knew it. I knew someone would come over to see me. Who is it? Is it Bexley?”

“It’s a nice girl,” I said. Perley dimmed.

“A girl?” he said.

“A woman. A young woman,” I said.

“A grown-up?” he said. “Can I go back out to the woods?”

“She says you told people about your snakebite,” I said, and he lit up again, proud.

“Of course I did,” he said. “They asked me what happened so I told them. They love it. They love me.”

“She says that you told people you live alone,” I said.

“Definitely,” Perley said.