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by discussing—”
    Several hands shot up. They were too eager.
    Here we go again.
    “Are you Dr. Sutter or Mr. Sutter?” From a chubby, coppery-haired man standing behind the seats, wearing an ugly chartreuse turtleneck and gray sweatpants.
    “I’m Mr. Sutter. I have a BS degree in child psychology. You can call me Mark.”
    “So you’re not a doctor?” Accusing.
    Before Mark could answer, a woman in the front row, her arm cradling a swaddled baby. “Why do you think children don’t need parents? Why do you think they should grow up wild and undisciplined and untrained?”
    Mark forced his smile to grow wider. He had learned a lot at the other bookstore appearances. The trick was not to get flustered. Remain calm. Be quieter and saner than the audience.
    He glimpsed Autumn, her brightly lipsticked lips pursed, eyes narrowed with concern.
    “Have you read my book?” he asked the woman in the front row.
    She nodded. “Some of it.”
    A few people snickered.
    “Well, I think you are misrepresenting what I wrote. I believe children need parents,” he said. “My problem is with too much parenting.”
    “There can’t be too much!” a man yelled from somewhere in back. The outburst drew some short applause.
    Mark ignored it. “Basically, what I have found is that children thrive and grow happier and more creative with less parental supervision. I’m not saying we should ignore our responsibility to teach them the basics of what’s right and wrong. We all must instill a good moral sense. But we all know about helicopter parents these days, who hover over their kids wherever they go. These control-freak parents hinder the natural creative growth—”
    “Kids need to be controlled,” the same man shouted.

    “Kids want to be controlled,” the woman with the baby contributed. “They don’t want the kind of freedom you are talking about.”
    The audience seemed to erupt. Mark kept his smile, waited for them to settle down, tapping his hands on the sides of the podium.
    “I appreciate your point of view,” he said finally. “But for my book, I studied my patients and their parents for five years. My observations led me to believe what I wrote here. I believe parents should act like guides—but not like cops. Children need their parents to be warm and loving. But they also need to be independent from them.”
    The woman with the baby spoke up again. “You mean parents should act like friends—not like parents?”
    “Friends love and support you,” Mark replied. “What’s wrong with that?”
    Another eruption of angry voices.
    Autumn was shaking her head, her hair shimmering like a silver helmet in the light. She stared at him wide-eyed, concentrating, as if sending him a psychic message of support. His one fan.
    She has nice tits. How come I’ve never noticed? Because she’s twenty-three?
    “Let me give you an example from the book, the boy named Sammy. Sammy is ten. His parents treat him as an equal. They let him decide what to eat. They let Sammy decide when to go to bed and when to wake up. They let him decide how much time to spend playing video games or watching TV.
    “As a result, Sammy is not only happy but well behaved. Mature. He has a confidence that I don’t see in most ten-year-olds. You see, the extra freedom given Sammy by his parents has allowed him to—”
    A vibration against his leg stunned him, and he stopped in midsentence. It took him until the second buzzing tingle to realize it was the phone in his jeans pocket.
    Probably his sister, Roz, wanting to know when he’d be home.
    He ignored it. It buzzed three more times before it shut off.
    “A lot of doctors don’t agree with you,” a woman against the wall spoke up in a raspy smoker’s voice. “I read a review by a psychologist in the Times who said your ideas are dangerous.”
    The phone buzzed again. The vibration sent a tingle up and down his leg. Roz wouldn’t call back. Someone was being insistent.
    “Excuse