He looked at the child slumped in the seat and picked up the head next to it. After rolling it under his palm, he tossed it aside.

He stepped toward the male doll that hadn’t been moved- the driver of the other car- took another step, froze, then backed away.

The room was silent except for the hum of the camera. A page turned. He stood still for several moments, then was overtaken by a burst of hyperactivity so fierce it electrified the room.

Giggling, he rocked back and forth, wrung his hands and waved them in the air, sputtering and spitting. He ran from one side of the room to the other, kicking book-shelves, chairs, the desk, scuffing the baseboards, clawing the walls and leaving little greasy smudges on the plaster. His laughter rose in pitch before giving way to a croupy bark followed by a rush of tears. Throwing himself to the floor, he thrashed for a while, then curled fetally and lay there, sucking his thumb.

His mother remained behind her book.

I went to him and scooped him up in my arms.

His body was tense and he was chewing hard on his thumb. I held him in my lap, told him everything was okay, he was a good boy. His eyes opened for an instant, then closed. Milk-sweet breath mingled with the not unpleasant odor of child sweat.

“Do you want to go to Mommy?”

Drowsy nod.

She still hadn’t moved. I said, “Denise.” Nothing. I repeated her name.

She put the paperback in her purse, strung the purse over one shoulder, got up, and took him.

We left the library and walked toward the front of the house. By the time we reached the door he was sleeping. I held the door open. Cool air blew in. A gentle summer that kept threatening to heat up. From the distance came the sound of a motorized lawnmower.

“Any questions you want to ask me, Denise?”

“Nope.”

“How’d he sleep this week?”

“The same.”

“Six or seven nightmares?”

“About. I didn’t count- do I still have to?”

“It would help to know what’s going on.”

No response.

“The legal part of the evaluation is over, Denise. I have enough information for Mr. Worthy. But Darren’s still struggling- totally normal for what he’s been through.”

No response.

“He’s come a long way,” I said, “but he hasn’t been able to act out the role of the… other driver yet. There’s plenty of fear and anger still in him. It would help him to express it. I’d like to see him some more.”

She looked at the ceiling.

“Those dolls,” she said.

“I know. It’s hard to watch.”

She bit her lip.

“But it’s helpful for Darren, Denise. We can try having you wait outside next time. He’s ready for it.”

She said, “It’s far, coming up here.”

“Bad traffic?”

“The pits.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Hour and three quarters.”

Tujunga to Beverly Glen. A forty-minute freeway ride. If you could handle freeways.

“Surface streets jammed?”

“Uh huh. And you’ve got some curvy roads up here.”

“I know. Sometimes when-”

Suddenly she was backing away. “Why do you make yourself so hard to get to, living up here! If you want to help people, why do you make it so damned hard!”

I waited a moment before answering. “I know it’s been rough, Denise. If you’d rather meet in Mr. Worthy’s-”

“Oh, forget it!” And she was out the door.

I watched her carry her son across the deck and down the stairs. His weight caused her to waddle. Her ungainliness made me want to rush down and help her. Instead, I stood there and watched her struggle. She finally made it to the rental car, worked hard at opening the rear door with one hand. Bending low, she managed to get Darren’s limp body into the car seat. Slamming the door shut, she walked around to the driver’s side and threw open the front door.

Putting her key in the ignition, she lowered her head to the steering wheel and let it rest there. She sat that way for a while before turning on the engine.

Back in the library I turned off the video camera, removed the cassette, tagged it, and began my report, working slowly, with even greater precision than usual.

Trying to forestall the inevitable.

Several hours later the damned thing was finished; evicted from the helper role, I was, once again, someone who needed help. Numbness rolled over me, as inevitable as the tide.

I considered calling Robin, decided against it. Our last conversation had been anything but triumphant- tongue-biting civility finally sabotaged by depth charges of hurt and anger.

“… freedom, space- I thought we were past that.”

“Well, I never got past freedom, Alex.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what you want, Robin.”

“I’ve explained it over and over. What more can I say?”

“If it’s space you want, you’ve got two hundred miles of it between us. Feeling any more fulfilled?”

“Fulfillment’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“Stop it, Alex. Please.”

“Stop what? Wanting to work this out?”

“Stop cross-examining me. You sound so hostile.”

“How am I supposed to sound, a week stretched to a month? Where’s the end point?”

“I… I wish I could answer that, Alex.”

“Terrific- the endless dangle. And what was my big sin? Getting too involved? Okay, I can change that. Believe me, I can be cool as ice. In training I learned how to detach. But if I pull away, ten to one I’ll be accused of male indifference.”

“Stop it, Alex! I was up all night with Aaron. I can’t handle this right now.”

“Handle what?”

“All your words. They’re coming at me like bullets.”

“How’re we supposed to work anything out without words?”

“We’re not going to work anything out right now, so let’s put it aside. Goodbye.”

“Robin-”

“Say goodbye, Alex. Please. I don’t want to hang up on you.”

“Then don’t.”

Silence.

“Goodbye, Robin.”

“Goodbye, Alex. I still love you.”

The shoemaker’s children go barefoot.

The shrink chokes on his words.

The low mood gathered strength and hit me full force.

Having someone to talk to would have helped. My list of confidants was damned short.

Robin at the top.

Then Milo.

He was off with Rick, on a fishing trip in the Sierras. But even if his shoulder had been available I wouldn’t have cried on it.

Over the years, our friendship had taken on a certain rhythm: We talked about murder and madness over beer and pretzels, discussed the human condition with the aplomb of a pair of anthropologists observing a colony of savage baboons.

When the horrors piled up too high, Milo bitched and I listened. When he went off the wagon, I helped talk him back on it.

Sad-sack cop, supportive shrink. I wasn’t ready to reverse the roles.

A week’s worth of mail had piled up on the dining room table. I’d avoided opening it, dreading the superficial caresses of come-ons, coupons, and get-happy-quick schemes. But I needed, at that very moment, to keep my mind tethered to minutiae, free from the perils of introspection.

I carried the stack into the bedroom, pulled a wastebasket to the side of the bed, sat down, and began sorting. At the bottom of the pile was a buff-colored envelope. Heavy linen stock, a Holmby Hills return address, embossed silver script on the back flap.

Rich for my blood. An upscale sales pitch. I flipped the envelope over, expecting a computerized label, and saw my name and address printed in extravagant silver calligraphy. Someone had taken the time to do this one right.