Some Way Home: A Memoir in a Myth

LinkedIn Part 2

LinkedIn part 2: Some Way Home: A Memoir in a Myth

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Shell Games at the Crossings

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????????? On a sunny day in the fall, you might not know where you were heading, as you made the lazy looping turn off Hawthorne Drive. It’s easy to get confused. Shortly after sunrise, the autumn trees at the top of the hill blaze red and orange in the sun’s nearly horizontal rays. At the entrance to the Crossings Psychiatric Hospital and Foster Care Facilities a certain stand seems to lick the blue and white sky like a bright red tongue of fire. When the wind blows just right the whole hillside catches, ignites and dances in a flame that doesn’t burn.

????????? But when you get over that first small knoll and see the mature psychiatric facilities, all doubts are removed. You understand clearly that for half of the last century this was a place for nightmares. It’s where those who couldn’t awake from bad dreams were confined in the hopes of healing their impaired reasoning.

????????? The facility wasn’t built from malice nor was it intended to punish but in the end it became little more than a weigh station on many trips to hell. At the time it was built, it was thought to be a great commitment to the compassionate treatment of the sick by the scientifically enlightened.

????????? During those days, across our country, great facilities like this (mausoleums to the living dead) arose, erected by medical specialists who sought to rescue people from their insanity. They were built in the country for leisurely walks intended to enrich those lost in spirit, while behind the buildings’ granite facades, doctors sought to recover sanity with the edge of a scalpel, through the contact of an electrode, or in the prick of a needle.

????????? Most of these facilities have now been abandoned due to the development of powerful sedatives, anti-psychotic medications; along with political leaders who believed hospitals are no place for the sick. The ill have now been sent back to the streets leaving only their ghosts behind.

????????? In many US cities today you can find ghettos of Adult Foster Care homes slouched together in the poorest parts of the city’s decaying infrastructures. Places abandoned by the poor years ago are now cheaply refurbished for schizophrenics, who are then left to smoke their cigarettes on the warping porches and pound cracked concrete in search of their lost souls.

????????? However, this old psychiatric hospital, situated to serve southeast Michigan, was spared the common fate of sister establishments. She wasn’t abandoned. Some clever bureaucrat enticed a patchwork of loosely related and semi-autonomous social service agencies to inhabit its emptying halls. It is now a quilt of human suffering knit together by well intended mental health and protective service professionals.

????????? The hospital was built on a grand scale, so its many halls formed a labyrinth and during my first few months working at The Crossings, I spent considerable time lost within it. My boss, Maggie, made several veiled threats about my “horrid” waste of time. That’s when I decided to stop being lost and start wandering on purpose.

????????? I spent more and more time strolling and visiting with people. The back-wards, where the most severe mentally ill were confined, became one of my favorite places. Initially, I liked the children’s area the best. I stopped and visited as much as possible along the way. Listening to strangers and their stories became quite fascinating for me.

????????? Through this process, I memorized the layout of the facility but more importantly I learned about the stories everyone keeps inside, their personal mythologies that can heal when they are discovered, reshaped and retold. To search for and study these stories, I spent more of my time in the back wards of the hospital. By now, my boss was livid, so I began to work longer hours and made sure my caseload was cleared before those of other case managers. Besides, turnover of line staff was high at our agency. So in the end, she let me be.

????????? Talking to people in the hospital taught me to listen with an active ear and focus only on them. At first, it was hard work but when I developed the skill I found it gave me a new tool with which to influence people. You see, it was an odd sensation because when done right, in total neutrality, I actually began to have more control than was previously possible. It was a paradox, if I tried with all my conscious might to eliminate my presence in a conversation, eradicate every vestige of ego I could find, I found myself in a place of increased potency and in more control over both the speaker and myself than before.

????????? After this realization, my job became more than a job to me. It became a mission. I used my new talent to place foster children in homes that matched their needs at a new and unprecedented rate. Thinking about how my placement numbers had risen, I realized I was already using my new ability to match couples with children. By finding suitable children on our list server and connecting them to the unspoken needs of potential parents, I was able to make new bonds. By repeating what I heard deep inside their words, I was able to positively frame a parent’s first encounter with a child. With small effort then, I set up a dramatic hour or two for them to meet.

????????? After two years of agency work, I became the old man in my department. My numbers continued to rise and the younger members of our organization were treating me with too much deference. By now, because of our high turnover, I was near the top of the seniority list, save for a few old timers hanging on until retirement. My boss had stopped her scrutiny of my work completely and now let me do and say what I wanted; I was untouchable or at least I thought so.

????????? Little did I know my life was about to change when I stepped up to my secretary’s desk to get my messages one day in autumn.

????????? “Got a new one for you, hot-shot,” Rose snarled in what I’d learned was a playful manner. “Emergency placement! He’s been over in Psychiatric for awhile so we’re pushing the limit on days he can be one-to-one.”

????????? “He’s still on one-to-one? How long has he been there?” I asked as I took the file from her outstretched hand.

????????? “Hey, you got the file, hot-shot.” She lowered her head and returned to sorting paperwork.

????????? “He must be in bad shape.” I said to myself and began to quickly thumb through the new assignment.

????????? “Must be,” agreed Rose. “He was to go to Rick by the normal rotation but Maggie had me hold his file to the side and not put him into play until your name came around.”

????????? I stopped my search in the file and looked fully at Rose to see if she were kidding. Clearly, she was not. I then looked over to Rick who was writing a report at his spot in the bullpen, a large open room with islands of desks that served as our office.

????????? My desk was on the other side from Rick’s. He always seemed to be writing reports by hand whenever I came into the office. I began to wonder if he ever left. Did he ever meet the children and parents on his caseload or just write reports? He whined a lot, however, and his stories were all boring. “Whaaa, whaaa, whaaa,” I never felt sorry for him and the stories went on and on and on. So I’d taken to making subtle comments like: “Not now, I’m busy” to fend him off. But he just continued to whine about the problems he was having with his classic corvette convertible or the rainwater that dripped into his new, uptown home. Now in his forties, I guessed I knew why he’d never married. Who could stand to hear such a long and sad litany of mundane trivialities? His placement rate was always near the bottom of the list. Rick was clearly coasting on a long slope toward his retirement, still years away.

????????? “Why, is it something she thinks he can’t handle?” I turned back to Rose.

????????? “A real red ball” she said without turning from her work. “Maggie got a call from The Board. They’re making an inquiry. The word is they’re afraid this one might hit the papers. The boy, his name’s Devon I think, was with us before. He was placed with his Aunt for adoption but his adoption worker dropped the ball and didn’t follow-up per standards. So later, Devon turns up beaten and possibly tortured. His Aunt was found near dead and her significant other vanished. It’ll make the agency look bad, especially if the press gets wind of it. Maggie’s hoping you’ll make it go away . . . fast.”

????????? “He’s been in psychiatric fourteen days?” I raised my volume a bit. “That means I’ve got to find him a temp-spot in foster care by tomorrow.” I gave Rose my most incredulous expression.

????????? “Hey, don’t give me your two dollar looks” she said. “Rotation was slow this week. And you started near the bottom of the list.”

????????? “Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph...” I uttered an oath my Grandmother saved for special occasions. Then I continued, “Only one day...”

????????? “Better quit complaining and get on it. We’re counting on you.” She raised two hands which held make believe pom-poms and cheered, “Go team, rah! Fight team fight!”

????????? I looked at her again and she began to snicker. “Oh, you just wait. I’m going to dictate a long report on this one. You’ll be typing with nubs before you’re through.” I said in mock threat.

????????? “Ooooo ...” she returned in fake and artificial horror. “I said go team, GO team, so go . . . go!” She repeated and waved me away from the front of her desk.

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????????? “Not now Rick, I’m busy,” I said as I sat down at my desk.

????????? “Ha, ha, very funny!” He replied.

????????? I grabbed my electronic organizer and turned on my computer nearly simultaneously. Predictably, Rick began his litany but I didn’t wait to hear today’s list. “I’m going to key your Corvette,” I said over him in response. “I’m serious - shut-up. I’ve got no time for you today.”

????????? But Rick just shrugged off my words and continued with his own.

????????? I did my best to ignore him while I waited for my computer to boot up. I opened the agency’s shared hard drive and searched the list of homes with empty beds. It was miserable and slim pickings put together, there were only a few extra beds in the whole agency.

????????? At first I couldn’t find an empty one in a house that took emergency placements. My eyes raced down the list, frantic. If I couldn’t find a spot in a home already on the emergency placement list, I was screwed. I’d never make my newly discovered deadline. I’d have to talk one of our other foster parents into accepting a designation as an emergency placement home and all the extra scrutiny that goes with that, get them documented and filed before I could move the boy in.

????????? “Oh . . . come on come on come on . . .” I said as I flew down the list. “Ah ha!” I said when I found what I’d been looking for. “Mona, you lovely lady!” Mona hardly met my description, as she was old, massive and stingy. But she owed me a favor or two and when her beds were open she’d take just about anyone, as long as they didn’t damage her property.

????????? Mona was one foster parent who was clearly in it for the money. In foster care, there are two defined groups of parents. The first group was dedicated, loving and committed to helping children. The other group wasn’t, at least not as a priority. Mona was part of that second half. But she was reliable and definitely had a bed available for

the boy. I could move him out of psychiatric today and start looking for a better placement tomorrow if it didn’t work out at Mona’s.

????????? I picked up the receiver of my phone and glanced over at Rick, who’d stopped talking at some point and returned to his report. I dialed. Mona was home. I could hear a

????????? “That’s not Springer, I hope.” I chided her in a familiar manner before identifying myself. She knew who I was immediately.

????????? “Adam McDonnell, you ought to be ashamed, bothering a helpless old woman like that.”

????????? “Mona, you’re anything but helpless. So don’t run that tired trick by me. I’m on to you now.” I could hear her cackle a bit on the other end of the line. “Listen, I need a favor.”

????????? “Oh no, I know I’m in trouble now. I know about you and your favors,” she interrupted.

????????? “No, no, I’m serious. The bosses down here have set me up good this time. I’ve got an emergency placement I’m required to move today.”

????????? “Oh, oh, sounds like trouble. Only the testy ones are held back to the last day. I’ve been around too long for you to pull that one over on me. I ain’t going to have no lowlife delinquent in my home tearing things up. No way, no how, Adam McDonnell! You can forget it. Forget it right now...”???????

????????? I half-listened while letting her normal tirade run its usual course. Then, I began to say the things that I needed to get this boy placed in her home. “Now Mona, you know I would never do that to you. That’d be like giving a scorpion to my mother instead of bread,” I added the scripture like tone intentionally as doing so always had a good effect on her. “I wouldn’t think of placing a delinquent in your home. It wouldn’t be right. No, no, he’s a good boy. A fool has just hurt him, that’s all. Poor, little, hurt boy. Needs a good home like yours, that’s all, you’ll see. Someone good to look after him! You’ll do him right.”

????????? “Adam McDonnell, you’d lie to St. Peter himself if you thought it’d get ‘cha through them gates. I don’t believe a word you say.” She held firm.

????????? “No, I swear, I’ve seen him, he’s great . . . adorable,” I lied.

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????????? I was able to talk Mona into taking the boy by telling her good things and giving her promises. The next thing I did was go to our in-house, psychiatric ward to meet the boy and see if any of the things that I’d said about him were true.

????????? I checked in at the nurse’s station, where a middle-aged woman was charting medications. I introduced myself, showed her my tag and asked about the boy, “Devon.” She said she had it down in her records as Dylan but said she’d double-check the court papers. Then she came out from behind the counter and led me away to a locked door.

????????? “He’s in the playroom,” she said officiously. “We asked him to wait for you in there.” With that and several efficient moves from her hand, (the jab of the key, the quick sharp turn of her wrist, followed by the echoed clunk of the door bolt tumbling open) she deftly moved me into the playroom.

????????? “How will I know him?” I turned and asked.

????????? “He’s the only one in there,” she replied and disappeared.

As I turned away, the metal door closed behind me with a thud. I always hated the sound of the door being locked while not having a key. I hated feeling trapped. I stood for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the light of the new room. I looked about as familiar objects took shape with increasing focus and regularity. The couches and chairs, the orange and yellow, plastic, play structure, the TV set with a solid, blue screen (Nintendo on but nobody home) the boxes of teddy bears and dress-up play clothes, all these things I remembered from the many play places where I’d worked with kids in the preceding years. There were a lot of things in the room but there was no boy.

????????? Where could he be? He was clearly not, like she said, in the room waiting. It would’ve been easy to see him if he was there but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to feel annoyed at being locked in an empty room. So, I went back to the door and pounded a few times. The nurse came.

????????? “Someone must’ve moved the boy.” I said, flatly, to the woman’s straight face.

????????? “No, they haven’t,” she said back in a superficially polite tone. “He’s in there,” she nodded me back and shut the door again.

????????? I turned around and continued to search. I was careful and systematic in my efforts. I looked under every table and couch. But there was no boy, I was certain and that was proof. I could feel my Irish rise steadily inside as I headed back to the metal door for a second time. I know a boy when I see him and I know when I don’t see him, too! This time I knocked indignantly on the dark-green, metal door.

????????? “You’ve made a mistake...” I began but was interrupted.

????????? “No, you have. Try again, please” she insisted and closed the door in my face without waiting. For a moment, while standing with my head dropped slightly low and my face to the locked door, I remembered my third grade teacher, Miss Gene. I wanted to scream but resisted the urge. I took a deep breath and turned about. Just then I heard, or thought I did, something: a sound somewhat like movement ahead and to my right. I turned with a natural motion but nothing was there. The disturbance in the playroom had been so small that I dismissed it out of hand.

????????? That was when I heard the boy’s voice for the first time. A small animal sound came to me from the other side of the room. I turned, quickly this time in the new direction and maneuvered around the few intervening obstacles that lay between me and the noise. But when I reached the place where it’d come from, there was nothing there.

????????? “Yeeeet!” There . . . there it was again ... to my right. It was the sound of a small animal or . . . no . . . a baby bird in distress. The sound was brief and sharp but indistinct as well. This time it was a little louder and held for a bit longer than before. I stayed still. I slowed my breathing but heard nothing more. There was no discernible movement in the room except mine. When I got to where the new noise had come from, it was empty too.

????????? I’m embarrassed to admit that I could feel my blood beginning a slow, rolling boil. I still had a lot to do that day if I were to meet my deadline. The last thing I needed right then was to have my boss come down on me about technicalities. She never really cared about the big things but trip up on a piece of paper and she was all over your back. “Oh,” I thought out loud, “I don’t need her all over me” I said shivering at the image I held in mind. So when I couldn’t find the boy after five or six tries, I began to lose it.

????????? “Damn, I don’t need this,” I whispered to myself in a low voice. Just when I was about to shout, I heard a giggle. It was a tiny giggle, not much more than a quick tee-hee. It made me mad at first but then I understood that this was a game. He was playing with me. So, being mad might be a personal problem. After all, wasn’t I standing in the middle of a playroom?

????????? “Oh, so that’s the game?” I said, consciously adjusted my attitude, and then uttered aloud to the dust of the air, “Hullo! The games afoot, I say, eh what! Call out the dogs.” I barked in a exaggerated imitation of an English nobleman. Then I howled over my shoulder and to the rear. I got down on my hands and knees and played a hunt out for my unseen audience. I buffoon’ed as well as I could and each time I made a good joke of it, I was rewarded with a giggle slightly louder than the one before. When my hunting dogs got all crazy and out of control, I clearly heard a full-guffaw.

????????? With each new laugh, I moved closer to my real prey and, in this manner of misdirection, was able to zero in on him, my true quarry. When finally I shouted “Hey what, boys!” and play-acted the English gentleman falling from his horse into a mud puddle, landing splash on his royal bum, the boy burst into open laughter. Fast, I moved in on him. I found him under and behind a short table. But when I reached out to grab him, to say: “Gotcha,” and to poke at his belly, I was stopped still.

????????? I’d gotten to him in time to see his smile. It was bright and drew me in at once but, in a flash, when he realized that he was really trapped, a look of panic overtook his features. In fact, it seized his entire body. He tried to get away as his feet back-peddled rapidly on the tile floor but didn’t gain grip. He was trapped. I’d put him in a real corner. He began to scream.

????????? At first the sound was horrific but then his scream became almost silent. It was terrible to see him swallow his shriek. I watched those piercing, tearing tones and the pains they anticipated disappear into him as he gulped hard for air. They became guttural, drowned by his throat, pushed down. The noise diminished to nothing.

????????? To hold it in, however, took all of his might. He stiffened every part of his body. He closed his eyes, curled into a ball holding his knees to his stomach with both arms and rolled over to face the wall. His eye-lids wrinkled as he clenched them shut. Then he hid his head but the muscles in his back screamed silently way down deep inside.

????????? Hurriedly, I stepped back to give him room and said “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I made myself small and talked softly. “It’s okay; I’m not going to hurt you. I was only playing. It’s okay.” I opened a way for him to leave by stepping out of the area. “It’s okay, Devon.” I said, still mixing up his name. But I wanted to reach him, to let him know that he was safe.

????????? He didn’t move from that spot next to the wall. I sat down ten feet from him and continued to talk in as comforting a tone as I could. But he didn’t move. He became rock and stillness.

????????? After awhile, when I was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to hide again I got up and went back to the green door to talk to the nurse. She told me that she had double-checked and his name was “Dylan” for certain. She also said that what I’d just seen was a patterned behavior. The staff put him in the playroom to show me that his ability to hide was exceptional. They could hardly believe it. And if you found him, he acted as if he were being violently beaten. The terror on his face was ghastly and repulsed most people.

????????? He’d run away when he could but if trapped, he’d fall limp then curl into a fetal hardball. He stiffened and stayed like a dried leather orb for several hours, then fell into a deep, still state from which he couldn’t be roused. Much later, he appeared out of nowhere, calm, rested and oblivious to what had happened.

????????? “You can’t take him to a foster home like this,” she said to me directly. “We never leave him in the playroom because we can barely find him when we do. Here all the doors are locked. Don’t you see? We can barely find him in a locked room. How could you expect to keep tabs on him in a foster home?” She asked and waited for my reply.

????????? “You know the state guidelines mandate a placement.” I started. “He’ll be all right.” I continued but she was clearly not buying my line. “How about this:” I began again. “You say that when he has one of these episodes, he will stay asleep for a long time and can’t be roused, right?” I asked and she nodded. “Well, what if I were to go back in there and get him to come out here in . . . say . . . ten minutes . . .” I looked at my watch to confirm. “Would you say that I knew what I was doing? Could you give me that much?” I asked while really not having a clue to what I would do.

????????? I knew that I had to do something to move this kid and quick not only because of the state’s guidelines for in-hospital psychiatric days, but also because children who stayed for longer periods of in-hospital care didn’t do so well in the end. Foster-care, with all its faults, was still better than long-term hospitalization.

????????? She thought for a moment and then nodded, “Alright then!”

????????? I moved back to the playroom door once more. Back inside, near Dylan, I didn’t know what to do. I sat down on the floor close enough to him so that he could see me if he turned from the wall but not in direct line of sight. And, in no way, did I bar his path to freedom. I held my head low and drew with an index finger on the cool, tile floor. After what seemed a long time I began to talk again.

????????? “Dylan,” I said softly, reassuring. “Dylan, I know that I called you by the wrong name, I’m sorry.” I waited for nothing. “Dylan . . . I know that I scared you but I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry about that too.”

????????? After another period passed, seeming longer than it was, I continued but in a new direction. I needed him to respond . . . respond to anything. “Hey, what kind of things do you like? Do you like playing games? What is your favorite kind?” It was a cheap trick but I had to get him to start talking somehow. I felt confident that if I could, I would be able to get him up. “I like make-believe myself. I’m nuts over imagination. I bet you are too.”

????????? I looked around, somewhat frantic and saw a little play kitchenette with pink plastic dishes and bowls. I reached over and grabbed a bowl and a big serving spoon. “Hey, what’s this? Ah, a big bowl of my favorite dessert!” I made an exaggerated and sloppy show with the bowl but to no effect. Dylan’s back remained undisturbed.

????????? I sat perplexed. I knew that he liked to play, at least one game, namely hide-and-seek. I had to find another game he liked and quick. My time was running out. I sat and thought but my mind continued blank. I looked about hopelessly for an inspiration.

????????? Just when I was beginning to think out the explanation I would be giving Maggie when I missed the deadline, my eyes lit upon a large, red plastic play phone. Maybe he might play-act, long distance with me. I picked up the phone and opened it. I dialed loudly. “Ring ... Ring,” I said, “Hello. Hullo, is anyone there? Ring ...” I looked over to Dylan. Evidently it was going to take more than that as he didn’t budge.

????????? “Ring . . . Ring . . . Hullo! Harvey Horse? Oh, I’m glad to see your home,” I continued and turned away from Dylan. “I thought you might be out at the store buying treats for the party. Yes, that’s right, cake and ice cream, games and toys, stuff like that. What else do you have on your list? . . . Uh oh . . . okay . . . that sounds great. I can’t wait to come over.”

????????? I looked over to Dylan, he hadn’t moved but something had relaxed in his body a bit. It was subtle but something seemed less stiff. Encouraged, I continued. “Well, who are you planning to invite? Oh, I see. Teddy and Holly Bee and the rest of the gang . . . And what? You can’t get a hold of every one. They’re not answering their phones . . . Oh, no! People are coming over already. Ah, ooh! Do you think they might miss the party? That’d be terrible. Hey, how about this . . . how about if I give them a call before I head over. I might be able to get them to answer the phone. Do you think so? Do you think it might be worth the try? Okay! No, I don’t mind. Sure. Sure. No problem. Should I bring anything else? Oh . . . I see . . . we’ll have fun . . . that’s right. Okay! I’ll see you in a bit.”

????????? I hung up the play phone and got to my feet. I walked away, stopped in the part of the playroom that looked like a bedroom. “Oh, where did I put Dylan’s phone number? I just can’t remember.” I messed about, looking around for an imaginary piece of paper with Dylan’s pretend phone number written on it.

????????? I knelt before a trunk of play clothes and started to grab at them and toss them high into the air, all about the room. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I detected movement. But I didn’t turn around. “Oh, where did I put it? I don’t want him to miss the party. Where, oh, where!”

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????????? Near the bottom of the bin I stopped suddenly, “Oh, there it is. I knew it was here somewhere.” I reached into the bin and pulled out a piece of rumpled air. I unfolded it and read nothing aloud. “Aaahh, Dylan: (434) 555-D-Y-L-A-N,” I said continuing to improvise. I picked up the toy telephone again and dialed loudly, “(434) 555- D-Y-L-A-N. Oh, please be there, please,” I repeated and turned directly toward Dylan. But when I looked to where he’d been laying, Dylan was gone.

????????? Oh, no, I thought, he’s hiding again. Now what? I gestured to the air.

????????? Just then I heard, “Ding” behind me. I turned to see Dylan standing right there close enough to reach out and touch me. He delighted in my surprise. He was holding up his right hand to the side of his head, a thumb to his ear and pinky extended toward his mouth. His face was bright and set off by a great, self-satisfied smile. “Ding” was the only noise he made, “Ding.”

????????? I took a mental note, evidently, Dylan liked many games.

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Mona’s World

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????????? After that, I got to know Dylan extremely well. Before convincing Mona to take Dylan, I had to give her my home phone number. And she used it lavishly. A day and a half after Dylan left the hospital I heard her voice, cracking over the phone at three in the morning. It was the first of many late night calls I got from her.

????????? She told me that she’d thought she’d heard an intruder downstairs. So loudly, she rumbled down into the darkness with a flashlight in one hand and a stick in the other. She would fight to keep her things from the hands of robbers. Mona wasn’t afraid of “no sneak thief.” But when she entered the dining room, where her fine, plated silver was kept, she found what she couldn’t beat with her stick. It was Dylan relieving his bladder on her simulated Persian rug. His water piddled and splattered in the middle of the main pathway to the kitchen. It splashed onto her real cherry wood hutch. When she screamed, he disappeared through the kitchen into the basement.

????????? The basement was his. So my job that night was to get him out of there and back to bed. Then I had to listen to Mona rave about “that creature” being immediately removed from her home.

????????? Placing Dylan with Mona was a bigger mistake than I could’ve imagined. I think that all of us, Dylan, Mona and I, would’ve been better off if I hadn’t rushed his placement. But not knowing the extent of the mismatch and its consequences, surely I can be forgiven my error.

????????? But after his placement with Mona, the damage to Dylan would’ve been much greater if I’d sent him back to the hospital. Although Mona, her house and my caseload would’ve faired better, returning Dylan to the hospital would almost certainly have ruined his chances for adoption. Children who are taken out of foster placement and put back in-hospital are rarely returned to the community in any meaningful way.

????????? Infrequently these children escape their childhoods without being scarred by not belonging. Most often they spend the rest of their childhood bouncing back and forth between large, institutionalized group homes, little more than old fashioned orphanages and psychiatric facilities. No child on my watch had yet wound up at that dead end and I wasn’t going to let Dylan be the first.

????????? So I spent most of my time in the next five weeks, at Mona’s, putting out allegorical fires and waiting for a better placement to come along. By herself, Mona was unable to find Dylan in her home. With all three floors finished, Mona had 3,520 square feet of space in which she stored all her worldly wealth.

????????? Before she’d owned her house, it was owned by a wealthy auto man in the thirty’s and forty’s. The combination of many square feet, much clutter and Dylan’s ability to disappear was quite remarkable. I still, grudgingly, admire his ability to simply vanish. This was a situation that’d never occurred in Mona’s home before and was one that she couldn’t have imagined. The only solution she could think of was to lock the keyed, deadbolts on the front and back doors and secure the first floor windows. This way she’d be somewhat assured that he’d remain indoors at least.

????????? She couldn’t get him to bed at night, or rather more correctly; she couldn’t keep him there for long after the inevitable struggle each bedtime brought. The first opportunity he got, the first time she turned her back on him, he’d slip away.

????????? In his time at her house, Mona was uncertain whether Dylan ever used the bathroom at all. In this, he was a bit like having an untrained puppy in the house. Only he could be more subtle in the placements of his deposits. If you forced him into the bathroom, he’d put up such a fight that one night the neighbors three doors down complained about the screams that reached them. The police were bemused by the size of the noise that came from the undersized boy. So he never bathed.

????????? His eating habits were just about the same. He wouldn’t sit at the table. And he only ate what he could steal from another’s plate. At night, after everyone else was asleep, he would raid the kitchen. One time, he emptied the entire contents of the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. I was impressed by the climbing, agility and strength that this must’ve required.

????????? In the morning when Mona came down from upstairs all the food, dishes, glasses, cups and other containers were randomly placed on the kitchen floor. There was hardly a space big enough for an adult foot to fit on the entire floor. She had to pick up everything and place it in the dining room before she could get into the kitchen to put it away. That day she bought locks for the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator. After that it was uncertain just what Dylan ate.

????????? Things were so bad that I practically lived at the house. I took short naps on one of Mona’s couches and showered in the upstairs bath. The rest of my caseload went pretty much unattended, as I became a virtual stranger in the office. I faxed and e-mailed most work in.

????????? After a few weeks of this, however, I grew impatient with Mona’s ineptitude with Dylan so I started to react more slowly to her calls. Once I’d determined that Dylan was safe, I let her deal with him more and do her own work while I hustled to catch up on mine. However, Mona, feeling that I was ignoring her and not living up to the promises I made, began making calls downtown without my knowing.

????????? In trying to manage Dylan’s behavior, we were in a bit of a fix. There was no hope to teach him new, less maladaptive responses to his environment, if we weren’t able to keep him in a place where we could see him, where we could talk to and reinforce him. But we couldn’t force him to stay; restraint was out of the question. With children who have been severely abused, our office had a strict hands-off policy. In no uncertain terms, I told Mona that neither she nor her staff should touch Dylan in anger or in restraint.

????????? So we were in a bit of a fix. I suggested and modeled the use of positive reinforcement and shaping as a means to teach Dylan more pro-social behaviors. But frankly, when damage was done to Mona’s property I saw more revenge in her eyes than unconditional, positive regard. But I was there often and could run interference. The two older women, heavy and thick, who constituted Mona’s “staff”, weren’t proponents of our hands-off policy, so as representative of that policy I became “persona non gratis” around there. The whole atmosphere became tense and quietly antagonistic.

????????? Dylan, still my biggest worry, reacted to this change by becoming more skittish and hyperactive. At times, he seemed to be little more than a frightened, under-fed, nut-gathering mammal moving about at night, hiding during the day and squealing when confronted. I spent what time I could with him but it was awfully inadequate. More and more of my time was spent interceding on Dylan’s behalf. More often I had to explain Dylan’s behavior to everyone at Mona’s. More often I played on their sympathies. Then, what little time I had left was filled with filing forms. But whenever I could, I found time to be with Dylan.

????????? Often we started our time together by a few rounds of hide-and-seek. Dylan took delight in finding new places to hide. I thought it would be good if someone could find him, so I called it staff development on my activity log.

????????? He’d invite me to play by sneaking up on me while I was working. He’d position himself on the periphery of my awareness (he was good at knowing where my blind spots were) and then he’d dart from the corner of my eye into full view, catch my attention and then vanished. Often I followed. After a few rounds of his hiding and my seeking, we sat and were quiet. It was at these times that I thought Dylan might speak to me. It felt as if he wanted to anyway.

????????? One day while sitting on the floor in the basement I got the call to go down to the office immediately, my boss wanted me right away. I left thinking that Dylan and I could spend more time together when I got back. It wasn’t likely that my boss would take all day. She probably just wanted me to capitalize my ‘i’s’ or sign some form. But I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

????????? When I got to Maggie’s office, her shoulders were stiff. Her face was red, her manner formal and she may’ve been slightly out of breath. When I asked her, “What up?” she nodded to the ceiling and the offices of the county’s mental health governing board, which were on the floor just above us. “The bosses, that’s who,”

????????? “No, I mean what’s so important that I had to come down right away.”

????????? I suppose I could’ve put it a better way, for after I finished talking something seemed to come unhinged within her. She began to sputter and shake her head, tightly, rapidly, from side-to-side. Then she opened her mouth and began in earnest. “What so important?” she said in mock amazement. “I told you, the bosses, THAT’S WHO! And I’ve been spending far too much time talking . . . no I should say: listening . . . Yes, listening intently to them. And do you know what they are talking about? No, don’t guess. You! You, that’s WHO!” She extra exaggerated this last part.

????????? “What are you talking about,” I managed to stammer with insufficient grace. This’d taken me totally by surprise.

????????? “I’m talking about you . . . that’s who. You, who discharged a child against medical advice; you, who misrepresented that child’s status to one of our long-term home providers . . . you, that’s who. You broke your promises in effect setting up a situation where the child is underserved and the provider’s property is being damaged,” she scolded me like a third grader, her fingernails rapidly and sequentially rapping her desktop.

????????? Evidently Mona had been busy talking to her local politicos, who’d been busy talking to their friends at the mental health board, two pay-grades above my boss. It wasn’t unusual for home providers to have political connections but I hadn’t known this about Mona before. Anyway, I hadn’t been thinking of much else other than Dylan for awhile. Obviously, I hadn’t thought it all out but everything came into clarity during my boss’ tirade.

????????? Instead of requesting a transfer for Dylan through me, the case-manager, the normal procedure, Mona had decided that it would be more effective to discredit me with her buddies and have Dylan transferred from top down.

????????? “Get him out of there . . . now,” Maggie continued in my face. Her eyes locked on mine in her best impression of Rambo’s drill sergeant.

????????? “But I need time to find another . . .” placement, I was going to say but didn’t have the chance.

????????? “You’ve no time but the present! I mean today. If he isn’t gone today, you are on suspension tomorrow. Disciplinary leave follows! You’re lucky I’m not taking you off the case right now.” I didn’t feel lucky just then. After further raving and berating, she let me escape her office.

????????? I sat at my desk for awhile staring, not knowing what to do next. The bottom line was that there wasn’t much to do. I couldn’t get around both Mona and my boss . . . And my bosses’ bosses too, for that matter. If it were just one of them I could’ve figured a way out. I’d get a delay. I’d find an alternate placement. But with everyone united against me and Dylan, it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t think of any way to avoid placing Dylan back into the hospital.

????????? At my desk, I delayed a long time before I picked up the receiver of the phone. Slowly, I dialed the number to the hospital’s in-take department. I mumbled some information concerning identity but then changed my mind.

????????? I could at least see Dylan one more time and tell him myself that I’d made a mistake. And that he needed to go back for a while because of my mistake. “It isn’t because of you,” I could tell him. “It’s because of me. You’ll be out in no time.” I’d heard that one before from other case workers. To me it had always sounded like a lie. But I still had enough arrogance in me to believe that I wouldn’t break my promises.

????????? After I hung up on the intake worker, stopping my potential betrayal, I got in my car and headed back to Mona’s. The traffic seemed to take forever getting out of the parking structure but things sped up unexpectedly as I rolled off the pot-holed exit ramp from the Lodge Freeway and headed into the heart of northwest Detroit. When the traffic opened before me I saw smoke in the sky. It was still low to the ground. It hadn’t yet turned into the thick, black column of smoke that fires become when out of control. But, still, it was foreboding as it was in that neighborhood in the direction of Mona’s.

????????? After a few turns of the road, foreboding came to distress, as the smoke signal drew me closer and closer to trouble. I had to park a block from the house. I hesitated when I saw the old structure leaking smoke from all sides. Grey billows flowed out of cracks and crevasses on the first and second stories. I parked illegally but it didn’t matter as I ran the buckling sidewalks between me and Mona’s.

????????? I had to show my ID to enter the inner ring around the house. I was surprised to realize that there was less chaos closer to the burning building. This wasn’t to say that there was little activity. It was just less random than the crowd, now encircling the calamity. Both the fire and police departments were already busy on the scene. No water was flowing yet but preparations were being made.

????????? A small group of officers coordinated half way between the crowd and the fire. A number of senior team members were inspecting the house. At the Elm Street side, I recognized one of Mona’s staff huddled up with a small group of three or four frightened children. She was having trouble keeping them all together. They were moving about on the neighbor’s grass. But somehow she kept them in a group. I went over to them.

????????? The lady was bent to one knee and embraced two of the most frightened children in her arms. She tried to keep the other children near her with her voice. But she needed to shout at them to be heard, which only increased their anxiety. She had sweat on her brow and was panting for breath. She wanted help. She needed help. I didn’t want to give it to her. It was then that I wished I remembered her name. I knew that I had heard it on several occasions. Sylvia, I thought, but was unwilling to guess and be wrong.

????????? “Where’s Dylan?” I said and kept up a visual scan of the scene.

????????? “What do you mean? Where’s Dylan?! Can’t you see, we saved these,” she replied quickly. And then unexpectedly: “You and that devil-boy starting fires.” She said the last with such vehemence that it grabbed my head and turned me back to her. Evidently, the fire burning in the house wasn’t the only one set. Her head shook and trembled from side to side as if filled with dry timber at the height of combustion. At any moment, I believed that her head might split open and send glowing embers blasting at me.

Just then emergency workers came over and asked us to move back from the fire some more, then passed on.

In our current position, we could only go toward the back or the front to get farther away. We couldn’t move more to the side. The decision was quickly made that the front was no good because of the chance that a child might get lost in the crowd. The worker and I started laboring together to get the children to a new spot of greater safety. We headed our group into the neighbor’s back yard. Its fence had been knocked down in the confusion.

As we moved 15 or 20 feet, Mona’s backyard came fully into view. Between giving a young boy a comforting pat on his shoulder and reacting to another child’s fright, I suddenly saw Mona. I’d only a moment to look but took in the whole scene in a flash, as you do when you unexpectedly realize that you are in danger.

Mona was in the center. Her massive form gesticulating wildly, formidably. I couldn’t hear what she said even though it was, apparently, a loud yell. The noise of fire and now spraying water washed it away. But the movements of the group told the whole story. She was surrounded by relatives, supporters and friendly neighbors that were being emotionally whipped up to the proper consistency for a mob. Like Cassandra amid the fires of Troy, Mona bemoaned her woes, destruction, and unheeded prophecies. Her well wishers were currently acting as a chorus, vocalizing her refrain. But soon that refrain would turn on a target directed by Mona. I didn’t want to be it.

I looked back to the child I was attending but was really trying to hide from Mona. If I went any further, she would surely see me. But I couldn’t leave the group without first knowing where Dylan was. I couldn’t leave him.

“Stop!” I yelled to the lady with me. She froze for a moment. “By State Guidelines, you must tell me where all its wards are or be legally liable for their safety. Now, tell me: Where is Dylan?” I stood straight up for the last part of that.

????????? She looked at me with disgusts. “He’s in there,” she pointed. “In the house. . .” It was my turn to freeze. “I saw him run downstairs after. . .” she halted abruptly.

????????? “After what?” I inquired. ?????????????

????????? “After Mona slapped him . . . you know, she was fed up . . . And . . . well, hit his face. He ran off into the basement. Later, the smoke started coming up from down there, all around. We all got out, as fast as we could. No one has seen him as far as I know. Most likely, he started it. Most likely, still down there . . .” she trailed off. My insides jumped at her last statement. You can’t believe the trouble . . . if Dylan started that fire. I was already in the soup for discharging him too soon.

????????? “Did you see him start it? Did anyone?” I insisted. “No, you didn’t,” I could see it in her face. “Then let’s not go jumping to conclusions.” I turned away. But then I saw someone pointing at me. It was Mona. A moment later, I saw her crowd turn in unison. Their expressions are forever etched into the fear centers of my brain. I needed to do something but I didn’t know what.

????????? I moved along the side of the house. Then I remembered Mona and had to get out of there. But I couldn’t leave Dylan behind. I was stuck, I couldn’t go forward and I couldn’t retreat, indeed, I was dead in the water. It was the last place I wanted to be. So I stopped abruptly, took three steps to the right then stopped again. I stood facing Mona’s side wall, jumping and shouting inside myself. What was I going to do? If Dylan were downstairs, it was unthinkable. If something were to happen, I’d be finished ... my career ruined. I might even get sued. Could I be criminally liable? I was desperate as I saw my life changed in so many ways wrong.

????????? Just then a man in a long, yellow-rubber coat burst from the house’s side entrance. He ran to the front yelling, “She’s going . . .” The noise of the banging side-door and the feet that rushed passed shook me from my thoughts.

????????? Abruptly, without a plan or clear thinking, I hurried forward and grabbed the aluminum handle of the screen door and jerked it open. I put my shoulder hard to the wood door inside until it gave way. Then I went in and left the door partway open behind me. I ducked under the rancid, black smoke that backed up, then welled in the landing a moment, before it continued winding its way to the top of the building.

????????? I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I entered that burning building. It wasn’t the act of the hero but the confusion of a man caught in a trap made by his own cleverness.

????????? Once inside, I stood for an impossible moment on the worn linoleum of the back landing. I was immediately dumbfounded by the absurdity of my decision. I was too afraid to go farther but still more afraid to leave without Dylan.

????????? I bent low to avoid the hot, foul air that flowed up the stairs. If he were anywhere he’d be down there. I might not have left that landing but for the sound I heard of someone approaching outside. I thought it was the fireman returning. I was embarrassed when I imagined him coming in and finding me hunched over and frozen with fear. It was this thought that finally stirred me forward.

????????? I made a decision as I descend the stairs. I needed Dylan to survive; I wouldn’t without him. I couldn’t leave the house alone.

????????? When I ran out of steps I stopped.

????????? As in my dream, I searched for Dylan and found him by the furnace. When I’d reached for him he nearly knocked me out with the back of his head.? I lay on the floor, almost unconscious but determined to remain awake by strength of will, if nothing else. I was struggling to save Dylan as well as myself.

“No!” I screamed inside and came back to my senses.

I was lying on my back, turned around and could not, at first, recognize what I was looking at. Then I realized that I was looking up into the blackened wood of the second floor. The space we occupied was a contrast of light and dark, yellow and bright orange flames and dead-black, burnt wood and smoke. There was a thin red strip that separated the two. Dylan was bathed in that intense, red light as he had been bathed in his Aunt Patti’s blood on that night now long ago/still present. His image became sharp in my sight; then began to blur again. I was fading.

“No!” I shouted out loud enough to make Dylan startle. He turned to me with an exalted look of delight still glazed on his face. But his face changed quickly when I bolted upright and dove at him in a single movement. It was now or never.

The flames having reached the ceiling of the second floor and finding no easy way out, paused in their rising but then began to move out in all directions. If we didn’t get out now we would be trapped forever. We had to get to the side door before the fire or we’d be lost.

I rushed at Dylan and grabbed him up the best I could. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight. At once I began to move across the basement, still wobbling from Dylan’s blow to my head.

His face to my chest, Dylan bit down on my breast muscle two inches to the left of my left nipple. His teeth sunk into my heat-stung flesh. This was his revenge. But I dared not take time to stop him. Besides, I probably deserved it. I let him bite and held my scream as the pain that it built inside me made me focus and propelled me toward our escape.

????????? I’ve no idea how long it took. Part of me will stay in that basement forever. I deserved to die in that hell for all the damage I’d caused. But I didn’t die. People, I’m told, don’t die in hell; they remain alive to their pain. So, I continued to live and brought Dylan from that pit because he didn’t deserve to stay there. Even though there was no doubt he’d lit the fire, I believed that he was the only complete innocent in the whole affair. Dylan never really had a chance in life. It wouldn’t have been right for him to stay there, so I kept moving. I remember, if only vaguely, trudging up the stairs with all the speed my shaking legs could muster. I thought we would never make it, until we did.

????????? And then we were out in the cold, fresh air. Life! We collapsed on the lawn ten feet from the door, a bundle of pain and anger. Whose was whose, I’m still not certain.

????????? “We made it, Dylan. We’ll be alright.” I said for my own relief.

He bit down in response. Then the pain pushed me out of consciousness and oblivion embraced me.

?

?

A Good Go.

?

I don’t know but I was told that rescue workers came and separated us there on the lawn next to Mona’s exuding ruins. I don’t recollect our burns being tended, our lungs treated but our wounds were neatly field-dressed by the time our senses came around. The workers, whose names I’ll never know, had treated and quickly tented us in loose, white gauze by the time we rolled into the hospital’s emergency room. I can’t recall the sporadic, flashing lights but our pictures made the local papers the next day. I still have copies though I’m not sure why. But I do know the exact moment I saw Sharon and Dan Blanchard in the hospital. It was as I rolled along the long, terrazzo’d corridor from emergency to radiology on a gurney.

I immediately called out, “Sharon” and again, “Sharon! Wait!” The last I added to my attendant. Effective and self-assured, Sharon reacted in her typical manner. Almost as if a vision, she appeared near immediate. The clearness of her there struck my senses and roused me from my stupor.

You see, Sharon Blanchard and her husband, Dan, happened to be legends at the Crossings. Clearly they were the best of the best foster parents that the agency contracted with. I’d been privileged to work with them on various cases. And we worked well together.

If I believed in providence, I’d be obliged to say that it was evident here in Dylan’s story. What was the chance that I’d run into them at that precise moment, when I needed them the most?

The strength of the moment’s impact on me was immediate. My head cleared, time slowed to a comfortable pace and I began feeling a rhythm in the flow of my perceptions. “Sharon, is everyone alright . . . how are the kids?” I asked, oddly out of context with my back to the gurney.

“Yes,” she replied. “We’re just here for a follow-up down the hall. But . . . what happened to you? Are you alright?”

“Not important, I’m fine. I’ll tell you later.” I refocused her onto what was most important to me, “Do you have any open space at your house?”

“Just a temporary spot,” she intoned inquisitively. “We might get one back from medical soon. Why? What’s up?”

“I’ve someone for you. You’ve got to take him.”

“Why?”

“Because this one can be saved,” I replied on instinct. But as I heard my words, I knew that they were exactly the right words for Sharon.

I conserved my energies and listened to her think for a moment. She asked several questions in fast report, “What’s his name? Why is it critical? What condition is he in?” But I was too tired and about to swoon again.

“Can you take him?” I asked.

She turned to her husband who nodded and then turned back to me, “Yes, I think we can. Do we have a day or two?”

“He’ll be in the hospital a couple of days, could be more.” It was hard to stay focused. Now knowing that I’d a new placement for Dylan, I let myself drift. And what a placement it was, the Blanchard home! When Dylan was discharged from in-patient he wouldn’t go to a group home. I smiled. He had a NEW placement and with the best of the best foster-parents in the system, no less.

This meant that Dylan would soon be getting an abundance of social services to help him along his developmental way. The Blanchard’s weren’t rookies; they knew how to make phone calls and ask the right questions. They weren’t political like Mona but neither were they naive. They had a more scientific and dedicated approach to fostering. It also meant that I could write behavior plans that would be followed by Sharon’s helpers. Dylan would be in a house prepared for children with special needs.

The Blanchard home was far less cluttered than Mona’s. Unlike Mona, they didn’t need a pile of treasure to feel secure. The Blanchard home was already a child-proofed and child friendly environment. Sharon’s house could also one-to-one from time to time. So a person could be with Dylan constantly as he made the transition into their home.

????????? In both structure and impression, the Blanchard home was as much like a well-adjusted, nuclear family as possible within the Child Protection Agency. I was pleased to know that Dylan had found a new home, maybe the best one yet. It wasn’t the disastrous step down I thought it’d be but a step up into a home that really would meet his needs so Dylan’s past could start to heal. I took a deep breath and let myself resolve into that warm thought.

Besides, I’ve finally followed orders, I laughed to myself I moved Dylan today, I snickered and slipped away into darkness.

?

#

When I awoke, our fortunes had changed completely. My boss was at my bedside assuring and encouraging me. This was a shock. She was almost jolly in her presentation but so close . . . too close.

“All’s well that ends well,” she repeated to herself, placing flowers on my bedside table. “We’re all worried about you down at the office. You’ve got to take whatever time you need. I’ve got you on full disability, so take time . . . if you need more you can get days from the sick bank.”

For some reason, she was courting my favor. I needed to know why. I’d have to watch and not commit myself to anything. There were motives and agendas still hidden that I needed to know before I acted. If she wanted me to “take my time”, it was almost certainly in my best interest to move fast. It might be that I’d some extra political influence downtown currently. If I did, she didn’t want me to use it. That much was sure!

So it was probably in my best interest to get out of bed and back to work ASAP. I had to verify the real situation for myself. Besides, after reaffirming Sharon’s arrangements, I was so excited I really couldn’t hold myself down. The burns, cuts and contusions which traced my recent past soon disappeared and I was able to fast-talk a doctor into discharging me after “only” 48 hours without restrictions.

I was elated even when I couldn’t find my car, which a friend had left for me in the hospital’s parking lot earlier. I didn’t mind . . . at first. Happy to be moving on my own outside, I searched up one aisle then down another until I’d covered the whole lot. After going around twice, my enthusiasm wearied.

When I found my car tucked behind a red mini-van, I went quickly home to shower, change clothes and eat. But I was back at the hospital within two hours. Record time, no? I needed to see Dylan, right away, from the outside. I visited him in hospital gowns for a day and a half but now I wanted to visit with him in street clothing to encourage him that life was still a good go. As always, he was mute but interactive and I did all the talking.

Later that day, I visited the Blanchard’s in great anticipation, but fatigue caught up to me and I took a short nap on their lazy boy. Later, I woke and went home to my neglected apartment and slept a long time.

When I awoke I set to work with vengeance. By the luck of the draw, Dylan’s case received new life so I wasn’t about to blow it through neglect to details. I was astute with the technology that social science gave me and used all the tools in my arsenal. I left no behavior plan unwritten, no insight uninterrupted and no developmental milestone unmarked.

It was great to work with Sharon again. She was a real pro and had a real heart for children. The Blanchard’s were veteran parents. They had twin biological daughters 25 years ago and after raising the girls, the Blanchard’s became foster parents and fostered several dozen children, many with specialized needs. They adopted all their foster children who didn’t return to their biological families. They’d never turned any child in need away.

Currently, there was only one adopted child and three foster children in their home. State guidelines determined that Dylan filled the last open spot in their home. The Blanchard’s older daughters, who didn’t live there anymore, helped care for the little ones and kept the household running.

There were many hands at work in the Blanchard home but the busiest were Sharon’s. She was dynamic, pure force working through distance. She appeared ageless and, in a paradox, rose to her 5’2” stature like a giant earth-mother incarnate. She cared and tended for everyone in a way that made each feel special. She organized the household schedule for six to eight and made it look easy, always performing with grace under pressure.

I enjoyed being in their home and, like sun shine on a winter morning, I felt immediately welcomed. I took an extra cup of their coffee and, after the highly-chilled circumstances at Mona’s, this was a relief. Since being at the Blanchard’s was like being at home, I played with all the children incessantly.

There was Kyle and little Nikki, both younger than Dylan by a year and then two. Upon Dylan’s arrival, the three became inseparable. Ryan, an older foster son, played with them at times but most often was busy trying their parent’s collective willpower with pranks and rude behavior. Colleen was the oldest Blanchard child now living at home. She was in high school and acted more like an aunt than a sibling to the younger children. Jennifer and Anna, the biological Blanchard twins, lived with their own families but stopped by daily bringing their children with them. This was the Blanchard home when Dylan moved in.

While still at the hospital, he’d delighted in playing video games, watching movies on video and being brought treats by smiling nurses. When I visited, he always seemed happy even though he was undergoing treatment for breathing problems. All the smoke he inhaled at the fire had given him respiratory difficulties, potentially with long-term risk for asthma. While hospitalized, it was noted that he measured below the second percentile in both height and weight for children his age. He spoke not at all and, at some point, lost bladder control, becoming nocturnally incontinent.

Sharon and I met several times in the following days and I outlined the medical and behavioral plan Dylan would need to have in place as he made the transition. Sharon agreed they could take him and, as she signed the documents, I kept my emotions in check.

In the first days after Dylan moved in with the Blanchard’s, he seemed like a child who was seeing a beautiful parade for the first time. He appeared captivated by the energetic comings and goings of this happy and noisy household. There were so many new things for Dylan to experience and learn and when I stopped by to check on him after he was officially moved in, he’d often be sitting and doing nothing but watching the show go by with a shy, almost imperceptible smile.

?