PART ONE
THE GUARDER
ALEXANDRA
In the dream I am running and my sister is behind me. The ground is brittle, hard against my summer feet, and as with every dream, I think I’m rushing to save something, to stop it, but it’s not that. It’s so much worse. I can hear Ruth gaining on me—she’s bigger than me—and she grazes the back of my shirt with her fingertips as I strain to run faster. When she finally grabs me, as she always does, she pulls me down into the dust and her sharp fingernails dig into the little-girl flesh of my arms. It’s just a game! I scream, We’re only playing!, and I jolt upright in bed, my feet pedaling at the sheets, my tongue pasted against the soil of my mouth.
I lie panting for a minute. I thought the dreams would lessen, but they’re getting worse. They’re always of her, or the version of her I last saw all those years ago. It’s crazy to be so afraid of her; I don’t even know where she is.
I tiptoe out of bed, careful not to wake up Chase, and stumble to the kitchen to get water, to put out this fire in my head. I’m so thirsty all the time. By the sink, I run cold, clear water and drink from the tap, splashing a little to my forehead.
Chase’s loft is high-ceilinged and open concept, a one-bedroom that’s short on doors and boundaries. Some couples might find that claustrophobic, but I don’t. I find it companionable. I can just see him from where I stand by the sink: He’s a muscular guy, but he breathes so softly, his tanned arm lolling against the crisp, white sheets. I’ve no concept of where he goes when he sleeps, but it’s an opposite dreamscape to mine.
Outside, the sky is trying for an early blue. It’s June, but there’s still a 7:00 a.m. gray that leaks slowly into color. In this Colorado town, we’re never too far from the creep of the glacier, a silent advance I can’t help but find sinister. Chase, though, he loves everything about the mountains. On my way to the walk-in closet, I trail a fingertip across the tall canvas print of him by the front door, a professional shot of his body upside down on the mountain, hucking a twenty-foot drop on skis. I could never do that, wouldn’t even know where to begin. But he’s good in environments that I’d find daunting. He rarely ponders such things as his own mortality. Behind him, snow wisps delicately to eclipse the sun. I have to admit it’s a beautiful photo.
Once I’ve pulled on skinny jeans and a T-shirt that isn’t too crumpled, I grapple my hair into a topknot and grab my khaki jacket and my old leather satchel. I lift the satchel over my head so the strap lies diagonal across the front of me. My Vans are by the front door, and I kick my feet into them, wondering if at twenty-five it might be time to buy shoes that aren’t best suited to the average fourteen-year-old boy. But my job doesn’t require a corporate dress code. As a child-protection social worker, it’s best if I look relatable.
Tucked away in the Rocky Mountains, Moses River is isolated in the winter months, but now the trees along the sidewalk are in bloom, the buds bulging with optimism. Locals mill about on Main Street, coffee in tall travel cups as they lean against their parked trucks. Wheels of mountain bikes hook over every tailgate—if there’s bustle, it isn’t work-related. Life is beautiful reads more than one bumper sticker. But ask any social worker in this town and they’ll tell you life around here is a lot of things, not all of them beautiful. But we’re trying. We’re trying for the kids who don’t believe the bumper stickers, for the kids who live the truth.
As I walk up Main, I think about Minerva’s email from last night. It was hassled and hurried as usual, but she told me there was a report of negligence involving a little boy and his parents, a couple called the Floyds. I haven’t heard the name before, but from the tone of the email, it seemed like she was familiar with them. If she wants me on board, the case must be an ugly one. It always is when there’s a baby involved. A little baby boy.
Minerva Cummins used to work in Mental Health and Addictions before she crossed over to Family Services, and she’s never shaken it off. Every exchange I have with her feels like she’s trying to help me out of some kind of saddening entrenchment. Even as I’m solving problems, she’ll sigh with her eyes closed as if I’m the cause of them. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why her husband divorced her. My boss, Morris, rarely puts me and Minerva together on cases—perhaps because he knows that as one of the older, more experienced social workers on the team, she can be patronizing. She’s a mother, Alex, Morris told me once in his office. But don’t let her mother you.
An unexpected cold blast of air hits me as I round the corner onto Cedar Street, and I jog the next few steps to the Lovin’ Oven bakery. The bell above the robin’s-egg-blue door jingles as I enter, and I’m greeted by the smell of butter tarts. The bakery is compact, with one long counter, various chalkboards on brick with the handwritten names of soups, rows of golden-fresh bread stacked on shelves behind the till, and three rough wooden tables for eating at, all of them rectangular with benches. I do a quick scan of the room as I enter. Minerva’s not here yet. For all the dedication she claims to have, it’s rare that she arrives on time to anything.
Once I’ve bought a coffee, I find a seat at the far end of the long table and wait for her. Over in the corner, two old ladies in matching knitted hats share a pot of tea. For a second, I wonder if they’re sisters. The thought stops my breath.
But then the bell above the door jingles and Minerva strides toward me, corduroy pants chafing noisily as she moves. Her brown bob is still wet from the shower. It looks plastic, like hair you press onto LEGO people.
She stops in front of me at the opposite bench. “Another day, another dollar.”
“Morning,” I say. “Are you ready to go?” I half stand.
“Chill your boots! I need to brief you first, and you know I can’t do anything without a strong coffee.”
Coffee is why she wanted to meet early? I reluctantly sit back down while Minerva orders her coffee, then settles into a seat as though we have all the time in the world—all the time in the world when a young child’s well-being is at stake.
“So,” I say, careful to hide my impatience. “Tell me about this baby boy and his parents.”
“Frank and Evelyn Floyd have a history of drugs and alcohol addiction.” She takes a wary first sip of her drink. “Basically they were druggies, troublemakers before they had a child. But they’ve been better since he was born.”
“Okay … So then why are we both going on this visit?” I ask. What I really want to say is Get a move on.
“The baby’s name is Buster,” she says, dodging my question. She pauses, relishing the Floyd baby’s name, hoping I’ll laugh at it, but I don’t. “Earlier this week, they left him outside in the car while they went into the post office. Some Good Samaritan called it in. We’ll go out to their house, have a quick peekaboo and that’ll be it. We’ll be in and out, brussels sprout.”
Her phrasing catches me off guard. “In and out so fast when they left a baby abandoned in a car? How long was he alone for?”
“Come on, Alex, you know the drill,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t assume the kid is in danger just because some stranger said so. I need you there with me to fairly assess things, and we need proof of abuse or neglect.”