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His major sign of affection these days was absently patting me on the head as he walked by, much as he did the dog, and saying, “How ya doing, little buddy?” I was constantly confused: Was I still his mom or just a really boring playmate he’d outgrown?
    Zach, on the other hand, still seemed like his real self—goofy, completely unself-conscious about his affection for Michael and me. Lately, though, I’d noted him watching Josh, and I worried that the wheels were turning. If his adored, hero-worshipped olderbrother thought the parents were so lame, maybe he needed to readjust his thinking as well. Soon, I suspected, Zach would just find us annoying as well. I figured we had two, three years tops to enjoy an uncomplicated relationship, and I wanted to make the most of it.
    â€œMaggie?” said Michael. “Did you hear anything I said?”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “You know what? I don’t get why I want to go either, but I guess it’s the devil-you-know theory. I mean, maybe Gifford is innocent, but right now I’ve got those awful police photos stuck in my head. And until I meet Gifford himself, I’ve got a monster pictured.”
    Michael tugged at the comics planted under my elbow. “If you’re not reading those, I want them.”
    â€œI can’t read the comics on the morning of a trip to Death Row,” I said. “Take ’em.”
    â€œSo, you think that if you see this guy, you’ll be able to tell just by looking at him that he is—or he isn’t a monster?” Michael persisted. “Gee, let’s get rid of the criminal justice system, cara , and let you take a look at accused people. Save the taxpayers a lot of time and money, eliminate jury trials altogether.” He sipped his coffee and gave me a particularly smug grin. “Why don’t you explain your intuition to the warden at San Quentin, and maybe he’ll send this guy home with you?”
    I examined Michael while he read the comics, top to bottom. The fact that he was making wisecracks about my visit puzzled me.
    I reached over and tapped my fingers on the back of his hand. Without looking up, he turned his hand over and clasped mine.
    â€œHey,” I said. “How come you’re not trying to talk me out of going to San Quentin?”
    He put down the paper. “You’re interrupting Sherman’s Lagoon ,” he said. “Okay, remember when we were at Dr. McQuist’s the other day?” he asked.
    I nodded.
    â€œYou said you’re interested in this as a story. I’ve decided I’ve got to believe you. I can’t be second-guessing everything you’redoing at work, looking for trouble. You want me to trust you, so I guess I’m going to try. If it turns into anything else, can I assume you’ll talk to me?”
    â€œI will,” I said eagerly. “I promise. It’s just…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, that’s great. That’s wonderful. I guess that means therapy is working, it’s just that I never would have thought that someone like Dr. Coat of Many Colors would work for us.”
    Michael sipped his coffee. “You don’t think much of her, huh?”
    â€œDo you? Look at her!”
    Michael regarded me coolly. “And the great evenhanded journalist Maggie Fiori is judging people on the basis of looks again?”
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sake. I’m not a real journalist, I was an underemployed freelance writer who fell into this job, and I’m trying to take it seriously, and yes, absolutely, I’m a terrible, shallow person and I do judge people not by how they look but by how they choose to present themselves.”
    â€œWell, if you don’t give Dr. McQuist a chance, this whole thing isn’t going to work,” he pointed out, letting go of my hand.
    Shut up, Maggie, I said to myself, just shut up. I stood, came around behind Michael and threw