D.D. didn’t know who Lucy was. She looked at Alex; he shrugged.

The door next to them opened, and Danielle Burton reappeared. All three boys turned to her, the first tugging on the hem of her T-shirt.

“¿Dónde está Lucy? ¿Dónde, dónde?”

“Está bien, está bien,” the nurse soothed. She ruffled the boy’s inky black hair. “Lucy está aquí. Tranquilo, okay?”

“Okay,” the boy agreed.

“This is Jimmy.” Danielle introduced the lead boy to Alex and D.D. “And here are his partners in crime, Benny and Jorge. If you ever want a dynamite game of Matchbox cars, these are your boys.”

Alex took the bait. He squatted until he was eye level with Jimmy and asked, “What’s your favorite car?”

“Monster car!” Jimmy whooped. He stuck out his arms and took off in a wide-arcing run, looking more like an airplane than a car to D.D. But Benny and Jorge apparently thought this was good enough, and they took off running around the tables in the common room as well.

“Walking feet,” Danielle called out.

The boys slowed to a trot. The nurse seemed to feel that was close enough. She gestured with her hand and D.D. and Alex followed her to the left, where a smaller corridor led to a bank of classrooms.

Danielle found an empty room, gesturing for them to enter. D.D. and Alex had started their inquiry with the nurse manager, Karen Rober. She wasn’t as hands-on, however, recommending they speak to Danielle, who, conveniently enough, walked through the front doors a moment later. The look that had passed over Danielle’s features when she’d spotted D.D.’s police creds had been interesting. A mix of horror and anger. And, immediately after, shuttered tightness.

Karen had assigned Danielle to the detectives. Otherwise, D.D. wasn’t sure the young nurse would’ve agreed to walk down the hall with them, let alone answer any questions. Now Danielle pulled out a chair at the wooden table, set down her files, sat, fidgeted, and got back up again.

“I’m gonna grab some water,” she announced. “Need anything?”

D.D. and Alex shook their heads. The nurse popped out; they took their seats.

“First impressions?” D.D. murmured.

“Twitchy,” Alex said.

“She should be twitchy. She’s being questioned by the police.”

“Twitchier,” he amended.

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too.”

Danielle reappeared, bearing a cup with a lid and a straw. She took a seat across from Alex and D.D., not as close as she could be, but not too far away. The nurse was younger than D.D. would’ve thought. Athletic build, dark hair swept back in a ponytail. Pretty, under normal circumstances. Tense, given these circumstances.

“Sure you don’t need anything?” the nurse asked, plucking at the manila folder in front of her.

“We’re good,” D.D. replied. “Busy afternoon?”

“We’ve had busier.”

“How many kids are out there?” D.D. asked, easing into things. She wanted to take her time with Danielle. She was curious what made the nurse tick-or fidget, as the case might be.

“Fifteen. More crowded than we’d like, but not acute.”

“Acute?”

Danielle had to think about it. “A psych ward is acute when we have more than we can handle. It’s not a specific number of kids; it’s the dynamics of the kids. Eight kids can send us over the top if they’re involved cases that didn’t mix well. On the other hand, we’ve effectively handled up to eighteen.” She paused. “Not that I’d like to do that again.”

“How long have you been here?” D.D. asked.

“Eight years.”

“Sounds like a long time, given the field of work.”

The nurse shrugged. “We’re a progressive unit, which makes us a better place to work than most pediatric psych wards. Some of our MCs have been here twenty years or more.”

“MCs?” Alex spoke up.

“Milieu counselors. Did you notice the guy in the hallway? The one with the great baritone?”

“The gym coach,” D.D. filled in.

“That’s Greg. He’s a milieu counselor. We refer to the environment within our unit as the milieu. Greg’s job is to help sustain that environment-safe, nurturing, dynamic. Mine, too, but I’m an RN. MCs don’t need to have a degree, just a lot of energy and creativity to work with the kids.”

“What makes this a progressive unit?”

“We don’t snow kids-”

“‘Snow’?” D.D. interrupted.

“Drug them senseless. Most of our kids are on multiple prescriptions. Plus we use PRNs-medications given as needed, say Benadryl-to help soothe a child having a bad day. But we medicate to a functional, not nonfunctional, state.”

Danielle fiddled with the straw in her cup. When D.D. didn’t immediately ask another question, letting the silence draw out, the nurse volunteered on her own:

“We also refuse to physically restrain the kids. During an outburst, most psych units will resort to tying a kid to a bed. They tell the kid it’s for his own good, but it’s still a shitty thing to do. Let me put it this way: Once we had a five-year-old girl whose shoulders wouldn’t stay in their sockets because her parents’ idea of babysitting was to hog-tie her so they could go drinking. When the girl was finally admitted to the ER for severe dehydration, an intern ordered physical restraints because the girl kept freaking out. Can you imagine how that must’ve felt to her? She finally gets away from her parents, and she’s still being trussed up like cattle. Eighty percent of our kids have already suffered a severe trauma. We don’t need to add to that.”

D.D. was impressed. “So,” she summarized, “no snowing, no tying. When the kids go all Lord of the Flies, what d’you do?”

“CPS-collaborative problem-solving. CPS was developed by Dr. Ross Greene, an expert in explosive children. Dr. Greene’s primary assumption is that a child will do well if a child can do well. Meaning, if we have children who won’t do well, it’s because they don’t know how-maybe they have issues with frustration tolerance, or rigid thinking, or cognitive deficiencies. Our goal then is to teach the child the skills he or she is lacking, through CPS.”

D.D. considered this. Tried it on a couple of times, actually. She didn’t buy it. She glanced over at Alex, who appeared equally skeptical.

This time, he took the lead: “You’re saying a child goes psycho and you… talk her out of it? Hey, honey, please stop throwing a chair out that window. Now, now, Georgie, no more strangling baby Jane.”

Danielle finally cracked a smile. “Interestingly enough, most of our parents sound just as convinced as you. Example?”

“Example,” he agreed.

“Ten-year-old girl. Admitted with a history of explosive rages and petty arson. Within two hours of arrival, she walked up to Greg-the gym coach-and decked him. Didn’t say a word. Hit first, thought later.”

“What did Greg do?” D.D. asked.

“Nothing. Guy’s a good two hundred and twenty pounds and the girl barely topped seventy. Blow glanced off his stomach. Then she tried to kick him in the balls. That got him moving faster.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “But no snowing, no tying?”

“Two male counselors intervened, trying to guide the girl back to her room. She lashed out again, screaming at the top of her lungs. Other kids started getting wiggy, so our nurse manager ordered the male MCs to disappear. Second they were out of sight, the girl calmed down and returned peacefully to her room on her own.”

“It was the men who set her off,” D.D. filled in. “The girl had an issue with men.”

“Exactly. Large men with dark hair, who may or may not bear a resemblance to the girl’s stepdad, as a matter of fact. That’s what triggered her outburst. Observing that gave us something to work with. Something we would not have learned if we’d restrained her or medicated her.”

“All right,” Alex granted. “No snowing, no tying. But where’s the talking?”

“Once the girl calmed down, I reviewed the incident with her. We discussed what she did. I talked to her about other options for approaching boys that didn’t involve trying to kill them. It was an ongoing process, obviously, but that’s what we’re here for-to help kids understand what’s going on inside their heads, and what they can do to manage their jumbled emotions. Kids want to do well. They want to feel in control. And they’re willing to work, if you’re willing to guide.”