WE PARK IN a run-down strip mall on the far edge of Boston. The lot is dotted with potholes, and two of the eight storefronts are empty. Four of the others have signs that look like they’re from the 1970s—a dollar store, a hardware store, and a nail salon. There’s a huge Michaels, too, shiny and brand-new; it looks like it was mistakenly dropped from a great height.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Jasper asks, looking around.

“This is the address Rachel gave me.” I study the row of stores. “Maybe it’s that one over there.”

“Sorry, let me ask that question another way,” Jasper says. “Didn’t you say she was like super successful and went to Harvard Law School? How did she end up working here?”

I realize now that I don’t know Rachel’s whole story, only bits and pieces.

“Rachel used to be some kind of corporate attorney. My mom called her a ‘fixer.’ And she didn’t mean that in a good way,” I say. “But she defends people pro bono now. Trying to make amends for all the bad people she helped, and all the money she made. That’s what my dad says. Oh, there it is, over there,” I say, finally spotting a simple black-and-yellow sign that is identical to the nail salon’s next door: Rachel O’Callahan, Attorney-at-Law.

THE DOOR IS locked when we reach it. There’s a small handwritten sign taped inside that says RING BELL. It’s a Sunday, after all. When I do, a crackly voice comes out garbled through the lopsided intercom.

“It’s Wylie Lang to see Rachel!” I shout back, hoping they will understand me.

But there’s just more loud crackling. I try again.

“It’s Wylie Lang!” I shout a second time.

More crackling, even louder. Like whoever is on the other side is shouting now. The voice cuts off when the door buzzes open.

The waiting room is not much nicer than the outside of the office. Actually, it might be worse. There are a half-dozen cheap-looking folding chairs and an empty reception desk. Wood paneling and a linoleum floor. It smells of mildew.

“Um.” Jasper starts looking around like he’s got a lot to say but can’t figure out where to start.

“Coming! Coming!” Rachel calls from down the dark hall, her voice an unmistakable mix of Boston and Brooklyn.

“Are you returning, Ms. O’Callahan?” a man calls after her. He steps out of Rachel’s office and drifts in our direction. “Or should I just . . .”

“Sorry!” Rachel calls, though her eyes stay locked on me. “But I’ll have to reschedule our prep session for later this evening, Doctor.”