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doctor over which drug to prescribe. She wouldn't argue with Scott over whether to uproot them all and move, over and over again, and she wouldn't think to wonder how I chose my questions. I felt my shoulders tighten, wanted a cigarette, settled for getting up for another cup of coffee. Helen had barely touched her first cup, didn't want more.
    Yes, she did like it here, she told me when I sat again, and she hoped they'd stay, and I tried to listen through my new impatience, my need to be in motion. It would be nice for the kids to be able to settle somewhere, she said. Of course, that would depend on Scott's job. Each time they'd moved it had been so Scott could do better, provide better for his family, and he'd done well and she was proud of him. It was nice, she added, it was a kind of relief, to be where Scott had grown up, where it felt like the family had some roots. Did I understand that? Although moving around, well, it wasn't so bad, really, and it could even be fun— we knew all about that, she and I.
    She gave me a small smile when she said that, the first I'd had from her. I smiled back automatically, the smile I use to reassure a client. She glanced away uncertainly, and I didn't know if that was because of my smile or her own.
    "Tell me who Gary's friends are, Helen." I took pen and paper from my pocket. "The ones the police already talked to, and anyone else you can think of. Any girls he's interested in?"
    She sipped her coffee, though it must have been cold by now. "He was seeing a girl for a little while in the summer, but that stopped before school started. He's too young to really date, but they went for ice cream and things like that."
    "What's her name?"
    Her brow creased in thought. "Victoria," she finally said. "Such a lovely name, old-fashioned. They call her Tory."
    "Last name?"
    "I don't remember," she said. "He didn't see her for very long."
    "Okay," I said. "What about other kids?"
    She looked into the distance. "Gary always makes friends in a new place once the school year starts, especially once the boys start to play sports, but it takes me a while to know who they are," she said apologetically. "There's a tall boy named Morgan Reed— I think he's one of the quarterbacks— and there's one called Randy Macpherson. He plays in the same position as Gary, but he's a senior, so he always starts the games. And a boy near where we live. Paul Niebuhr." This she said in a more tentative way. "He's older than Gary, and he doesn't play football. I haven't seen him much since school started, but they were friendly during the summer— they went skateboarding together. Paul used to come over for dinner. I don't think his mother cooks much." Helen's voice held a note of disapproval. A good mother, her tone said, cooks for her children. "But some of the boys aren't around this week, you know."
    "They're not?"
    "It's Camp Week at the high school. The seniors from the football team are all at camp. And some of the other families go away, because the high school's closed."
    "What's Camp Week?"
    "In Warrenstown, the high school starts a week early. Before Labor Day. Then, if the football team makes the play-offs, they send the senior boys to football camp at the end of the season. For a reward, to help them get ready for playing in college."
    "A reward? Camp at the end of the season?"
    She looked at me blankly. "Why, is that strange?"
    I shrugged. "I never played. But from what I remember, football players are pretty beat up by the end of the season. Camp's usually in the summer."
    "I don't know," she said, and her voice rose and her hands started to twist a paper napkin, as though not knowing was a frightening thing.
    "They close the whole school for Camp Week?" I asked, because that was something she did know, could tell me.
    "So the boys won't have to miss classes and make up any work."
    "What if they don't make the play-offs?"
    "Everyone just stays in school and does a week of special projects."
    I get it,