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few hours for them was the most I could hope for. Another holding action. Sometimes it was the only action to be had.
    I sighed and pulled out my phone. I called Lydia and asked about the boy.
    “Of course he’s okay, doctor,” Lydia said. Her voice was low, and I could hear television in the background. “What do you think—I wouldn’t call if there was a problem? He awoke at eight last night, a little disoriented but with good vitals, and an appetite. I kept his diet bland, but let him have as much as he wanted. He went back to bed around ten-thirty, and slept till nine this morning.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I said he’d gotten sick, and the lady he was with brought him to the clinic. I said we’d look out for him until she comes back.”
    “Did he say anything? Did he tell you his name?”
    “He says his name is Alex.”
    “Just Alex?”
    “That’s all he says when you ask.”
    “So he speaks English.”
    “Yes, what little he says is in English.”
    “Did he say anything about the woman?”
    “He calls her
mamá.
”
    “I told you.”
    “But he doesn’t say anything else about her—no name or anything—and he shuts down when you try to talk about her.”
    “And nothing about where he lives?”
    Lydia sighed. “He’s looking at cartoons now, doctor. I’m no detective like you, but I didn’t think it was the time to interrogate him. If you want to come over…”
    “I’m out trying to find his mother now.”
    Lydia sighed. “Try hard,” she said. “The boy is not in a good way.”
    “You said he was doing okay.”
    “Physically he’s fine, but there’s something else going on. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first trouble he’s had.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “I’m talking about his reactions. The kid doesn’t cry, he doesn’t ask any questions, he does what he’s told, but otherwise doesn’t say a word. He pretends to watch the cartoons, but he doesn’t laugh—he doesn’t even smile. And the whole time he’s really watching me—like, every move I make.”
    “Watchful, guarded, lack of affect…”
    “You got it—the kid’s seen hard times before. I don’t know if it was neglect or abuse or what, but this isn’t his first trauma. He needs help.”
    “Shit,” I whispered.
    “Exactly, doctor.”
    —
    By two I hadn’t found Alex’s mother, or much else, and the heat and glare were like a vise as I jaywalked on Agatha Street. There was a knot of adolescent boys on the far corner, leaning against a pickup with a red metallic paint job—gang kids, on break from dealing rock and rolling addicts on the nearby blocks. The guy in the driver’s seat, scarcely more than a kid himself, was their boss: the shot caller, the headman of the crossroads. Squads like this could be found at intersections around the neighborhood—legations from gangs across the city, all drawn by the endless supply of victims.
    I knew some of the shot callers, though not this one. I could feel the weight of his gaze—the gauging of effort and payoff—as I crossed, and adrenaline bubbled in my veins. The kids watched me and laughed derisively. I didn’t look, but I didn’t look away. Psychosis wafted off them like cheap cologne as I passed, and I was reminded of child soldiers I’d seen years ago, driving by in trucks, in clouds of dust and madness. As I walked by, I thought of what Nora said about boredom, and what Sutter said about my fondness for rooms full of guns, and shook loose another memory.
    It was of driving, with my mother. I was eleven, and it was summer and night—quite late—and my mother had only just returned from the hospital; my father was still there. My mother was restless and fidgety when she walked through the door, irritable and brusque as she paid the sitter, pacing the house afterward, from room to room, chain smoking. Finally, she picked up her keys and her purse and said that she needed air and was going for a drive. She paused at the door to ask if I