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“Sure.”
    All Danielle can think about is how awful it must be for him to watch these terribly disturbed children and to worry if—or when—someone is going to tell him how screwed up he is. She holds out her hand, palm up, their secret sign of solidarity. He places his on top, and they link fingers. His hand is almost bigger than hers now.
    “Mom?”
    She takes a deep breath. “Yes, baby?”
    His green eyes stare directly into hers. “What do we do if they say I’m really crazy?” He turns away quickly, as if he can’t bear hearing the question out loud, much less the answer. Danielle takes him in her arms and holds him to her. His thin body quivers like a mouse caught in a trap. She squeezes him tighter.
    She doesn’t have any answers.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Danielle manages to slip a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender and grasp the icy double vodka he offers. Anything more than this is beyond her physical or emotional capabilities. Witnessing Max’s fear and pain this afternoon proved more than she could bear. After they went back to the unit, Danielle deposited Max into the care of a chipper Reyes-Moreno, who bustled him off for testing. The backward glance Max gave her tore a fresh slash in her heart.
    She takes a healthy sip of her drink. The cold and wet of it jump-starts her, the alcohol producing a welcome effulgence that shimmers down her body. She relaxes enough to take in her surroundings. Plano is a one-horse town, and the hotel is modest, but the bar is a thing of beauty. Soft chandeliers bathe the room in forgiving pools of light as soft music slips through hidden speakers. The carpet, thick and luscious, mutes the murmur of guests who sit around low, glass tables, conversing in small tribes. Danielle drinks steadily until the glass is empty and then holds it up, ice cubes tinkling. The bartender catches her eye and nods. Just as he slides the next glass of elixir across the slick wood of the bar, someone touches her elbow.
    “Excuse me.”
    Danielle turns. A man stands before her. She puts him at about six foot three and fiftysomething. He has white hair at the properly distinguished places around his temples. All-starched white shirt, designer tie and custom suit, he is theepitome of a successful businessman. It is only the kind, brown eyes that prevent Danielle from giving him her customary terse dismissal. “Yes?”
    “This is a bad cliché, but may I buy you a drink?” His voice is deep, mellifluous. “I promise—if you don’t want company, just say so, and I’ll go sit in a corner and drown my proverbial sorrows.”
    Danielle regards him for a long moment. Her choice is the same as his. Either she can sit here and run the miserable reel of her life over and over, or she can talk to someone else and try to forget about Max for a few minutes. She is suddenly aware that the black dress she slipped on after her shower clings closely to her body. She forces a small smile. “One drink—and then back to your corner.”
    The smile he flashes back seems genuine. He takes the seat next to her and raises his index finger at the bartender. “One of what she’s having. When hers is empty, bring another.”
    “This is already my second.”
    He turns and fastens mesmerizing brown eyes upon her. “Then I’ll have to catch up.”
    She holds out her hand and makes a split decision. “Lauren.”
    “Tony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is an awkward silence as they wait for his drink to arrive. When it does, he raises his glass to hers. “To a better evening than the day before it.”
    “I’ll certainly drink to that.” They clink.
    “So,” he says, “what possible reason could you have to be in Plano, Iowa? You’ve got big-city girl written all over you.”
    She smiles. “Good guess. Manhattan.”
    “Aha.” He reaches over the bar and relieves a plastic container of its olives. He lays a few on her cocktail napkin. “The question still stands.”
    Danielle dodges his glance.