“It’s just,” I said, “we’re getting ready to move house, and things have been a little chaotic . . .”

Trevor started shaking his head at me — Don’t justify, he seemed to be saying.

“Oh gosh, well, I can just imagine what a busy time it must be. Why don’t we have a big chat about that when we get together. We’ll talk about what kind of assistance would be most helpful for you and Kelli. How’s tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I repeated into the phone, with zero inflection. I was staring pleadingly at Trevor. He locked his eyes with mine and nodded.

He spoke in a low, soothing voice the entire drive home. I’d always thought I was the one with ESP in my relationship with Trevor — being able to anticipate and intuit his likes and dislikes, what he approved of and what he would disparage. But in this moment, Trevor seemed to be the one with ESP. He knew what I was thinking and what I needed to hear. He spoke steadily, to dilute the tension and as if replying to every panicked thought that the conversation with Eleanor Mallon was giving rise to in my head.

“You’re thinking,” he said, “this is the worst thing that can happen. But it isn’t, Karie. It’s bad news, yes, and it’s a pain in the fuckin ass, pardon my French. But these people don’t want to take Beaner away. That’s not what they wanna do, and if that’s what you think is gonna happen, get it out of your head right now. They just wanna be sure she’s ok and as soon as they see that she is, they’re gonna be happy as pigs in shit. Me and you just have to show them that she is.”

“But,” I said.

“That time she was sick with the squirts,” said Trevor sagely.

“And she was sick the night of the yard sale too. She was puking.”

“Ok, so we tell ’em people get sick. You and me get sick, Beaner gets sick, everyone gets sick. But she didn’t stay sick, right?”

“I think it’s because she got so sick twice,” I fretted. “So close together. They feel like I should’ve got her checked out. Maybe I should’ve.”

“Ok, so this is what happens when you get a call from these people, Karie. They psych you the fuck out. You gotta get a grip before you start second-guessing everything about your life. You start to feel like a dirtbag. ’Cause only dirtbags get visits from social workers, right? I’ll tell you a story. Social workers came to my house when I was a kid. There was a picture I drew at school. We were supposed to draw pictures about what our families did at Christmas, right? So I guess I drew something about how on Christmas Eve my old man opened all his presents and thanked us for each of them and gave us big hugs and kisses and told us how much he loved us — he even cried a little, you’d think the soppy bastard was going off to war the next day. Anyway, then he went to bed and then the next morning he got up, looked around all red-faced at the mess of paper and open boxes, and hollered, “Who the fuck opened all my presents?” Ok, so, turned out he’d been in a black-out the night before, only I didn’t know what that was, I just thought he had a really bad memory. So anyway, the old man throws a fit, kicking presents around and yelling that the bunch of us ruined his Christmas morning. Then he storms out of the house and he’s gone all day. My old man was always a bit of a sook, you wanna know the truth, you couldn’t do enough for the fuckin guy, pardon my French. So anyway, dumb kid that I am, I draw a picture of this at school — two panels, my dad on Christmas Eve and my dad Christmas Day, kind of a before-and-after sort of thing. And knock-knock-knock, if it isn’t social services at our door the very next day.