Juno listened raptly, nodding when he made references he clearly expected her to know. She imagined his parents’ eyes glazed like doughnuts as they half listened to everything he said, nodding and mmming dutifully until it was time to talk about them. Kids needed to talk; they needed to empty themselves of their experiences so they could process them properly. And, more importantly, they needed to have someone who wanted to listen and who could gently guide. That’s what Juno did. She listened.

Sam, finished discussing his video games, slid his arms through the straps of his backpack until it was hanging on his front. He wore a plastic bracelet on his wrist, the stretchy kind that had a little motto on it. A little dog on one of those retractable leashes skittered into the clearing, sniffing at Sam’s sneakers before darting off at the sound of “Klipper!” Sam bent down to pet Klipper, but it was too late, his little hind legs were working hard to get back to his owner.

“Anyway, my uncle broke my system and I couldn’t play anymore.”

Juno’s ears pricked to attention. Could be talking about Dakota? It hadn’t happened during Datoka’s last stay; Juno knew that for sure.

“How did your uncle break your game?” she asked.

“He’s an alcoholic.” So matter-of-fact about it, too, Juno thought. She studied him with the eyes of her old profession.

Sam was a small kid, scrappy-looking, with bandy, muscular arms and a boxer’s set to his chin. She’d never heard him complain to his parents about the kids at school bothering him, but that didn’t mean anything. Some kids shared that stuff and others bottled it up. Who are you, kid…the bully…or the bystander? Juno watched as he cocked his head and then, almost as suddenly, his eyes returned to the water. He watched a couple of teenagers in a kayak with interest for a few seconds before turning back to her. He regarded her like he was seeing her for the first time, and Juno began to sweat beneath the Landman sweatshirt. She searched his face, though for what, she didn’t fully know; a little bit of Winnie or Nigel, maybe. But in this moment, she couldn’t see a trace. With a quick dart of his hand, his phone materialized from his pocket, and he checked the screen.

“Want a puppy dog? That’s what my dad calls a hot dog.” He kicked the toe of his trainer into the dirt, but then squinted at her. “I always bring money on Thursdays so I can get two before I go home, but we had a class party with pizza today so I’m still pretty full. I have to eat this stuff out here where my mom can’t see.” He grinned.