“Please let me,” the intake worker said, touching his arm. Not unkindly, she told Lily, “He’ll go to a foster family tonight, Ms. Marshall, and we’ll be in touch with you about visitation. There will be a review hearing, a reunification plan.”

“This can’t be legal,” I said.

But they wouldn’t talk to me, so I talked to Perley, who was putting my ElfQuest comics into his knapsack.

“Perley, you need to tell these people that it’s not what they think, that you want to stay here with us,” I said.

But Perley said, “I like living on my own. I’m ready to go mix in with some other people for a change. Maybe some other kids. What’s so wrong about that?”

“Perley,” I said. My voice was quiet. “That’s enough. You need to stop lying to these people.”

To these people, Helen and I were the same. We were nothing but nonrelative adults. But Perley couldn’t see that. He loved the attention. He reddened with happiness every time that girl got on her knees and spoke to him in her solemn sweet voice. My kid was drunk with power. Since toddlerhood he’d savored each moment of defiance.

“This is real, Perley,” I said. “Perley. This isn’t a game.”

“I think I’d like to live somewhere new for a while,” Perley said. He looked at the intake girl. He did this weird sad smile thing, like his face wasn’t his face, like he thought he was the baby Jesus. He said, “I think I need a break. I need some help.”

When it’s your own child, love is a dark animal, is exploding. Live forever, live forever, this love pleads. But this love knows that we were born to be wrenched apart by death. This love is not a heart shape. There’s no pleasure in it. This love can quickly turn to rage. It sharpens into a weapon that is out of our control. This is what’s meant by a crime of passion. My crime of passion went like this:

“You little fucking moron. You little fucking liar. If this is how you want it, then you’d better fucking go. Get out. You want a wolf pack? This wolf will help you pack.”

His small shocked face. My ungainly arm, ripping his knapsack from his grasp, tossing it outside. Hoisting him up by the shoulder so that his feet brushed the ground. Dragging him to the door. Ignoring his twisted arm, his cry of pain. Tossing him out after his knapsack. Slamming the door after him. The intake worker and the deputy closing in.

I broke. And by broke I mean, How can I put it back together again? And by broke I mean, No way to fix it. And by broke I mean doomed to wander.

PERLEY