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inkling that all was not well in Decatur. Problem was, despite her chronological age, she still acted as if she were five . . . a particularly malicious and narcissistic five at that. By the time she was ten, it seemed pretty much certain five was as good as it was going to get. Kind of like one of those “most likely to succeed, homecoming queen” types who peaks in high school and spends the next fifty years in free-fall ennui, disappointed in themselves and in everything else they encounter along the way.
    As doting first-time parents, Milton and Doris Ponds had deflected the first suggestions of developmental deficiency as being, at best, anecdotal and, at worst, maladroit. So convinced were they of their daughter’s normality that they’d eventually hired a lawyer to help them fight the local school district’s designation of Eunice as developmentally disabled and as such as a “special ed” student. They lost.
    Five more years and three more children, upon whom Eunice enthusiastically heaped both physical and psychological abuse, had eventually, however, disabused Doris and Milton of any conspiratorial notions. Milton’s bold proclamations about how no child of his was going to ride the “little bus” to school faded to stony silence. If the unending parade of cuts, burns, bruises, and abrasions that regularly appeared on the younger Ponds children did not sound the alarm bell, the children’s steadfast refusal to name their older sister as the culprit . . . despite the best efforts of countless teachers, guidance counselors, and child psychologists . . . finally put the fear of God into all concerned.
    As if by providence, just as Milton and Doris found themselves facing the unenviable task of deciding what to do with a “bad seed” (as Milton liked to say), the family fell victim to what local fire authorities labeled a “suspicious” house fire, a tragedy that not only left them standing on the front lawn watching everything they owned turn to soot, but provided the final impetus for securing a suitable environment for Eunice, one which provided both the sort of supervision she required and the opportunities for professional counseling she deserved.
    “Ooooooh,” Eunice wailed. “You pushed me.” She drew back her fist and punched the guy right in the middle of his solar plexus with sufficient force to immobilize the vast majority of her fellow citizens. Not this gorilla, however. He never even blinked. When he caught her second punch in his black-gloved hand, Eunice balled the other fist and raised it to shoulder level. He smiled and twisted. And then twisted some more until something went pop in her wrist, something sounding like the snapping of a Popsicle stick. A shriek rose from Eunice’s throat. She banged her knees on the hard stone floor, her face purple with pain, her howl of agony rattling the rafters.
    “No” was all gray suit said.
    The big guy threw Eunice’s injured hand back at her as if it disgusted him. Lying on the floor now, her cheek pressed hard to the flagstones, Eunice assumed the fetal position, cradling the injured wrist, sobbing into her kneecaps and howling like an air-raid siren. Down at the far end of the hall, the double kitchen doors burst open. Helen Willis was patting her hands dry on her apron as she strode to the front of the house. Ken Suzuki held a piece of buttered toast in his right hand. The sight of Eunice writhing on the floor opened his eyes so wide he looked Caucasian.
    Helen jogged across the floor and dropped to the floor next to Eunice, who continued to bear-hug her knees and cry. After a series of hugs and soft entreatments proved ineffective, Helen scrambled to her feet. She put her hands on her hips and confronted the strangers. “What happened here?” she demanded. Gray suit waved a disdainful hand at the wailing figure on the floor. “This person attacked a federal officer,” he said. His voice was soft. His diction clipped and certain as