to eat lunch. Sitting on the lawn, he took in the graceful palms and the green gazebo and remembered being here with Diane. A young boy rode past on a bicycle, looking so lonely and sad. After eating only half his sandwich, he was full and got up to leave. Walking back to the office, he passed the building where Diane worked and trained his eyes forward to assure they didn’t have an awkward encounter.
        After lunch, he continued struggling to focus on work. At two thirty, his phone rang. It was Maya Pareto. He slumped in his chair. He wasn’t up to dealing with her today.
        “Mike, my mom’s really angry. She’s trying to hit me and I’m afraid she’s going to hurt me.”
        He considered how to respond. This sounded like a domestic, not a financial matter, rightfully the purview of a social worker. But he felt obligated to respond. And the social worker, Gary Inglehoff, did not have the expertise or sensitivity to handle a challenging case like this. Better that he, Mike, take it.
        “Where are you calling from? Are you safe?”
        “Yeah. I’m at a phone booth a little way from the apartment. But I can see her from here and she’s still really mad.”
        “Do you think she’s trying to hurt you?” he groped. “Has she done anything really dangerous?”
        “She threw some things and slammed the bathroom door on me. It didn’t hurt but it could have.”
        “Did you call Luz?”
        “Yeah, I talked to her. But I can’t always stay with her when Mom goes off. Something’s got to happen with my mom. Things can’t keep going on like this.”
        He was impressed with this insight.
        “Okay. How do you think I can help?”
        “Maybe if you talked to her. If you could tell her she needs to act better and don’t be so mean all the time. Maybe it would help.”
        He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of this but was flattered that she turned to him in a time of crisis.
        “Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
        As he drove up, she stood forlornly at the edge of the parking lot. She didn’t appear physically injured or particularly distressed. But she looked different, changed from the helpless little waif he knew. Her facial features were harder and more defined as if she’d suddenly matured by several years. Her eyes had a hardness that could be either anger or resolve, but definitely not her usual quiet