Brown had expected the cemetery to be very gray. Graveyards had always seemed gray to him for some reason. It was a rainy, gray New Orleans Fall day. Gray seemed reasonable. Instead, the place was very white -- an eerie misty white. He now understood why people talked about how dangerous the cemeteries were. It felt like an unsafe place. Most tombs stood five to ten feet tall. The pathways that ran through the cemetery were only about two feet wide and were often blocked off by an asymmetrically placed tomb. Visibility was very limited. It felt as though someone could suddenly step out in front or behind you at any moment. The narrow alleyways did strange things with sounds too, making noises seem to be coming from everywhere and nowhere.

The most disturbing sound was directly ahead of him – a keening moan, accompanied by a thumping noise. As he hurried nearer, Brown began to be able to make out words.

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum."

Brown broke into a run as the distorted muffled voice began to beg “the beautiful Mother” to take him in heavily accented French patios.

“Del!” he called out as soon as he could see the thin figure kneeling beside a small tomb slowly beating his head against the white marble. “Del!”

The boy was like a black and white picture of himself – washed out and colorless except for the bright streaks of red blood slowly dripping from the many small cuts on his arms and bare feet. All around him, pieces of brown, green, and clear broken glass bottles glittered in the rain.

“Del!” Brown called again.

The boy turned. His black eyes blinked vacantly. His thick dark hair was slick with rain and blood from his bruised and abraded forehead. His teeth chattered between ragged sobbing breaths and his pale purplish lips still moved with a prayer in some unknown tongue.

“Del!” Brown quickly kicked clear a path to the boy through the broken glass. It wasn’t that cold out, but the young man had obviously been kneeling in the rain for quite some time. He stank of liquor and vomit. He was only wearing a thin sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of black or dark blue pants. Brown took off his coat and wrapped it around the boy.

“Don’t take me from her,” the boy begged, trying to shrug out of the garment as the caseworker broke out a small medical scanner. “Oh, ma mere!” the young man’s hands grasped at the slick sides of the tomb. “Ma belle mere… venez-moi! Come take your poor son home…”

When he had confirmed to his satisfaction that the boy was exactly as he seemed -- drunk, cut, cold and bruised, Brown administered a stimulant that would help clear the young man’s head and began to quickly seal the dripping wounds up and down his bare arms. Several of the cuts were fairly deep, but it wasn’t obvious whether they were self-inflicted or an accidental byproduct of all the broken glass.

“Ma mere.” The boy wrenched out of Brown’s grasp to press his cheek against the cold marble, tears and rain mingling on his dark lashes. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

Brown let the boy remain there as he treated the oozing abrasion on his forehead. The caseworker used his bag to sweep away more of the glass, then eased the teenager into a seated position so he could work on his bloody bare feet.

“Brown?” Del asked weakly after a few moments.

“Yeah,” the caseworker replied giving his charge’s leg a reassuring pat before continuing to seal the cuts on his feet. “It’s me.”

The boy pushed his wet bangs from his forehead and seemed surprised to find a raised bruise there. “What th' hell you doin’ here?”

“I got a signal from the comm I gave you.”

“Oh,” The boy reached down and rubbed the pocked where he apparently kept the device. “I musta roll over on it or somet'ing. Sorry.”

Brown sat back on his heels. “I’m not sorry. Do you know where your shoes are?”

Del looked around blankly for a moment. “I t'ink I mighta hid ‘em so no one steal ‘em this time.”

Brown stood up and put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the immediate area. The toes of a pair of dark colored shoes were visible behind a chunk of broken masonry propped against a nearby tomb.

“Boy, that woulda worked,” the young man commented dryly as he struggled to rise.

“No, I’ll get them,” the caseworker ordered. “Don’t try to get up yet.”

“I do feel a bit poorly,” the boy admitted, rubbing the knot on his forehead.

Brown knelt down and began to put the teenager’s cold, wet feet into his damp shoes. “I thought we had decided we weren’t going to be doing this sort of thing again, Del.”

“We?” the boy repeated. “Somehow I not remember you bein’ present at other similar occasions...”

“I thought you had decided you were going to apply yourself.”

The boy shook his head slowly from side to side. “This the real me, Brown,” he said quietly. “Behind all my dreams an’ grand schemes, this the real me. This what it look like inside my heart all day ever' day.”

Brown was silent for a moment, watching as rivulets of water streamed down the side of the tomb onto the boy’s bruised and defeated shoulders. The air around them was still misty white but was beginning to grey now as twilight started to fall.

The boy’s black eyes searched his face. “An' now you wanna send me t' Forest Oakes,” he said, his tears beginning to glisten in his eyes again.

“Just for one night.” Brown said, trying to keep his tone matter of fact, as he put the boy’s right arm into the sleeve of his coat. “Just for observation.”

“No, please, no!” The young man pulled violently away, falling unsteadily onto one arm. “I never come back out that place.”

“Del.” The caseworker sat back on his heels, careful to make no move that would seem hurried or aggressive. “I know that you feel sad a lot of the time. I know you miss your mother…”

Uncontrollable sobs rocked the boy, although he kept his eyes warily fixed on the CPS agent.

“But when those feelings are so strong that you start wanting to hurt yourself…” Brown continued firmly but gently.

“Please, please don’t…” the boy begged piteously.

“I know that you don’t want to go,” the caseworker said calmly, remaining very still. “I know that the just the idea of the place frightens you, but you’re making more of this than you need to. We’re not talking about what your father called 'signing the papers.' I’m not going to commit you. That’s not going to be necessary. You’ll walk back out tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t. I can’t,” the young man repeated helplessly, shaking his head as tears rolled down his already wet face. “I can’t go there. You not understand.”

“Have you ever been inside a mental health facility?”

The boy shook his head adamantly.

“Well, I have,” Brown said. “Many times. And there’s nothing for you to be frightened about. I will stay with you while you’re admitted and while the doctors talk to you and run some scans. Then they’ll give you something to make you sleep.” The caseworker reached out and smoothed the boy’s long wet bangs out of his eyes. “You won’t even be awake most of the time you’re there, Del. You can sleep late, have a good breakfast, and then around 10:00 am, I’ll be back. We’ll talk to the doctors about the course of treatment they recommend. And then I’ll check you out – That’s a promise. You should be ready to go home by lunchtime. I’ll even take you to Galatois for lunch if you want to go.”

The boy scrubbed at his eyes and tried to get his ragged breathing under control. “I know that right now I cryin’ drunk an’ sittin’ here in my own blood an' puke, but I hate it when you talk t' me like I a li'l kid, Mr. Brown.”

The caseworker crossed his arms over his knees. “Del, you always seem to have a very good sense of whether or not someone is telling you the truth. Am I lying to you?”

“No, but…” The boy broke down again. “I can’t go there. I can’t. I can’t. Please, don’t make me. Please!”

“It’s really nothing to be frightened of.” Brown handed the teenager his coat. “I think that you’re grown up enough to know that you’re in bad condition right now. You know that you need help. I’m going to take you to place where you can get help.” The caseworker paused. “I remember hearing your father use the idea of your being committed as a threat, however that’s not…”

“You not understand.” Del shook his head violently. “You not understand. You remember what he said ‘bout me hearin’ voices?” He looked up, his eyes filling with tears again. “I do. I hear 'em all the time. I hear…”

When the boy’s voice suddenly trailed off, Brown looked up. A raincoated figure had appeared at the end of the alleyway of tombs to their right. From his stance, it was obvious he was carrying a weapon.

“You jus' stay where you be, mister.” Another figure had materialized out of the mist in the alleyway to their left. He was also armed.

The bottom of Brown’s stomach seemed to drop out. Fighting panic, he let his hand fall towards his bag, hoping the gesture would not be noted.

Unexpectedly, Del put a belaying hand on Brown’s arm.

“Some introductions are necessary,” the boy said, with a hint of his old humor returning. “Mr. Brown, this mon oncle an’ my cousin Coleridge. They my personal Child Protection Service. Uncle, Cole, this the CPS man.”

“Oh, hell, Cole,” the older of the two men said, hastily hiding his blaster. “It the law.”

“What you up to here, Shorty?” the younger man asked, keeping his weapon leveled.

“Same ol’ shit,” the boy replied genially. Under the guise of sitting up, he unobtrusively but very deliberately pulled Brown’s hand away from the panic button hidden in the handle of his bag that would have summoned police to the scene.

“We been lookin’ fo' you, cher,” the uncle, a man with coffee-colored skin and white, cotton-y hair, scolded mildly.

“Not much use lookin’ no place else,” the cousin, a younger, thinner version of his father, said, gesturing casually with his very cheap, but still quite lethal blaster.

“Might not be a nex' time,” Del said, jerking his head towards the caseworker. “Mr. CPS want to put me in Forest Oakes.”

“Oh, now you can’t do that, son,” the uncle informed Brown kindly but firmly.

“Yeah, that drive the li’l bastard th' rest o' the way t' crazy,” the cousin added. “Not that it a long drive, is it, Shorty?”

“Why don’t you kick a man when he down, Cole?” the boy asked indignantly. “Want me to roll closer so you can get me in th' gut?”

“Gentlemen,” Brown began evenly. “I assure you that I have only Del’s best interests in mind. It can’t have escaped your notice that he is severely depressed…”

“Oh, yeah,” the uncle agreed readily. “But when the pauvre petit take one o' these spells, it not good fo' him t' be 'round folks – ‘specially not folks screamin’ an' yellin’ that be half out they minds. I take him out on the boat fo' a few day, let him be by his own self. Get his mind quiet. He be good as new.” He nodded fondly to his nephew. “Non, cher?”

Del agreed readily.

“We know what we doin’, Mr. CPS,” Cole assured him with genial arrogance. “We been through this a bunch o' times already.”

“Which is exactly why it’s time to get some professional help,” Brown replied. “I recognize and applaud you for your concern, but my decision is non-negotiable.”

“This is New Orleans, cher.” Cole smiled as he pointed his blaster. “E’ver t'ing is negotiable.”

“Motherfuck it, Cole!” Del snapped as he grabbed Brown’s wrist before the caseworker could make contact with his panic button. “Didn’t I tell you he the law? Don’t you know he could have NOPD down on us quick as you can sneeze? Sweet Mary, I swear if you had a brain you’d take it out an’ try an' fuck somebody wit’ it…”

“It gonna mess the boy up somet'ing bad if you put him in Forest Oakes,” the uncle continued as calmly as if the prior exchange had not occurred. “He can’t be 'round people when he like this. It like he get sick in his thoughts. If he 'round somebody else who sick, he jus' get sicker an' sicker. Let us take care of him. We know how. We’da been here quicker, but the transport went out…”

“Shit!” Del exclaimed. “Your drive system go out again?”

“You gotta know it,” Cole confirmed. “Maybe Mr. Statboard here can give you a handout that you can make into a new converter…”

“You got a motherfuckin’ job, Cole,” his younger cousin retorted. “Why you not buy your daddy a part fo' his vehicle instead of spendin’ all your pay on that sad piece o’ ass you keepin’ up in Storyville?”

“Gentlemen, I don’t mean to interrupt but…”

“C’mon, mister,” Cole said. “Give the li’l bastard a break.”

The uncle fixed eyes that were as deep and expressive as his nephew. “It he birthday,” the older man explained with heartbreaking simplicity.

Brown turned to Del for confirmation.

The boy, wet and miserable, smiled a ghost of his lop-sided grin. “Happy birthday to me.”

Brown sighed. Holidays and anniversaries were particularly difficult for the bereaved. Knowing that it was the boy’s birthday did provide significant context for this incident although it did not lessen the potential seriousness of it. As much as he did not wish to back down from his original decision to take the boy in for observation, there were several factors to consider. On one hand this incident hadn’t been an outright suicide attempt…But on the other there was ample evidence of reckless self-endangerment… The idea of going in for observation seemed to be nearly as traumatizing as whatever had triggered this event… And yet he didn’t know that the boy wouldn’t turn around and come straight back… “Del…”

“Give it up, Brown,” the boy advised him with the beginning of a smile. “We got you outmanned an' outgunned this time. Let me go out on the Gulf. Get my head right. I be back in school nex' week, kickin’ ass an’ takin' names. If not, I press this button, you can come get me an’ take me wherever you want to.”

The caseworker sighed again. Although mental health care had improved a couple of centuries beyond the state that this entire family seemed to believe it was in, they might have a point. If the boy did have extra-sensory abilities, proximity to persons undergoing treatment could prove profoundly disturbing to him. Just the idea of being permanently trapped in such a situation had obviously become elevated to almost the level of a phobia for him.

“I’m going to give you another communicator,” Brown said, opening his bag. “It’s a little larger, but it still a dedicated line. For the next week, I want you or your uncle to call and tell me where you are and how you are every day by 3:00 pm…”

“Oooo.” Cole grinned as Del ran his fingers admiringly over the device. “We been needin’ a new comm system fo’ the boat.”

“Why not you shut th' hell up?” his younger cousin suggested.

“I pack up your li’l toolkit an' your google-eye glasses for you, Shorty,” Cole teased.

“I will see you back at St. Mark’s Monday at 9:00 am,” Brown continued, ignoring the byplay. “You’re going to talk to a specialist and have some testing done…” The caseworker held up a finger to forestall any argument. “Not at Forest Oakes. It can be at the school, at your home, at your uncle’s home, or out in the Gulf if that’s what it takes, but it’s going to happen. I want you to think about what’s going to be the best setting for you and be ready to make a decision next Monday.”

The boy nodded slowly. “All right, Brown, but…”

“Oh, c’mon, Shorty,” Cole said, helping his cousin to his feet. “Let’s get outta here 'fore he come to he senses an' throw us all in th' loony bin. My God, you done puked all over yourself again. When you feel a spell like this comin’ on, why th' hell you not quit eatin’?”

“When your brain empty,” the boy retorted leaning against his cousin so he could stand. “why the hell you not quit talkin’?”

Del’s uncle lingered behind a moment as the two cousins staggered away together, older supporting the younger, arguing loudly and obscenely in French patios. The older man ran a loving hand over the top of the tomb. “She would appreciate this, Mr. Brown.”

“I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Mr. Duhon,” the caseworker said, rising and dusting himself off.

“We be all right, son,” the man assured him with a pat on his arm.

“We came too close for comfort to a serious mishap this time.” Brown took a spare, tightly folded, water resistant jacket out of his bag and put it on. “Had you been looking for Del very long?”

The uncle shrugged. “Not countin’ th' truck break down… Not so long.”

When the caseworker gave him a questioning look, the old man gave him an answer that managed to both warm and chill him.

“It all right, son.” The man smiled and patted the tomb once more and then tapped his head. “She look after him still.”

Del was biting his fingers in an attempt not to grin when the caseworker entered. “You plenty mad at me, non?”

“How can you possibly know that, Del?” Brown took a seat opposite him in the tiny conference room at St. Mark’s. “When you have a telepathic rating of…” The caseworker opened his data pad and consulted the test results he’d received. “...absolute zero and scored a perfect set of zeroes on all other testable aspects of extra-sensory perception.”

The boy giggled contritely. “Overplayed my hand a little, non?”

“Do you know how rare a perfect zero score is?”

“To be honest, it ‘bout nine hundred an’ fifty-seven million times more rare than I thought it was.”

“You thought zero was the average score, didn’t you?”

Del nodded, putting both hands over his mouth. “I know I shouldn’t be laughin'. But I never been so far off on a guess in my whole damned life.”

“Well, I’ve never spoken with one before,” Brown replied, folding his arms. “But I’m told that people with zero psi ratings aren’t very intuitive and therefore probably aren’t too good at guessing.”

“Yeah,” the boy giggled harder. “That gotta be it.”

“On the other hand, the technicians tell me it takes unusually strong telepathic abilities to skew test results to this degree.”

“Shee-it.” Even this thought only marginally sobered the teenager. He shook his head in rueful amusement. “I knowed I shoulda read up on this stuff.”

“I’m going to schedule another battery of tests,” Brown said, making a note in his calendar. “And this time when I get the results I expect to be able to relax and enjoy, right?”

“Shit,” The boy repeated. “When I busted this bad, what can I say?”

“This time they’d like to conduct the testing at their facility…”

“Oh, shit,” the boy groaned. “You just bound an’ determined to get me into that loony bin, ain’t you?”

“It would be almost exactly like what you’ve already been through.,” Brown explained, watching carefully for any signs of extreme distress in the boy’s expression or body language. “A bigger variety of equipment. A few extra tests. Should take about an hour and a half. I’d be with you the whole time…”

Del rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t start that shit ‘bout how you gonna go in an’ hold my hand…”

“Well, you have to be admitted by your legal guardian or someone who has the power to act in their stead. So that means you’re going with me or with your…”

“Say no more,” the boy interrupted with an elaborately emphatic “halt” gesture.. “I will be honored by your attendance, Mr. Brown.”

The caseworker was very pleased about how calmly the young man was taking this news. “You don’t seem as bothered by the thought of visiting Forest Oakes as you were before.”

“Well, I not near as drunk an’ generally fucked in the head as I was last time we talk,” Del replied. “An’ after I talk wit’ them people who work up there, it don’t seem all that bad like some people make it out to be… Although it not gonna be no damn picnic. An' I expect that if it start to fuck wit' me bad, you gonna get me up outta there a.s.a. motherfuckin’ p.”

Brown nodded. “Of course.”

“An’ I jus’ walkin’ in an' then walkin’ back out,” the boy clarified adamantly. “No talk 'bout me stayin’ – not overnight, not not'ing.”

“That’s the plan.”

Del leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to one side suspiciously. “Even after you got back what they say 'bout the rest of what they test me for?”

Brown tilted his head towards the opposite side. “If I weren’t such a trusting person, I might be wondering how real those results were.”

“Hell, I had no absolutely no clue as to what was s’posed to be normal there,” the boy admitted readily.

“There is a lot of individual variation in what constitutes 'normal' in terms of our personalities,” Brown conceded, pulling up the information on his data pad. “There are a lot of variables to factor in order to interpret the data.”

“So,” the boy began warily, “am I sick in th' head or what?”

“Your fishing trip seemed to do you a lot of good,” Brown replied. “By the time you were tested, you were not as depressed as I anticipated you might be. There are, however, indications that you are prone to bouts of severe depression.”

Del snorted. “What can a body say to that other than a hearty 'No shit?'”

“The clinician was going to recommend a round of sensory deprivation therapy for you,” Brown said, but then couldn’t resist adding. “Of course that was before we found out that you had a psi rating of absolute zero – so I imagine life is like a big sensory deprivation tank for you… “

“What this sensory deprivation therapy be?” the boy asked, ignoring the barb. “It sound awful.”

“A lot of people find it very pleasant,” Brown replied. “I, myself find it profoundly relaxing.”

Del made a face. “You done it?”

The caseworker nodded. “Many times. It’s a regular part of my stress management routine.”

The boy lifted a dubious eyebrow. “You been in th' loony bin?”

“As part of my training for this job, I interned for nine months at a mental health facility in Chicago,” Brown explained patiently. “While I was there I conducted, observed, or took part in all of the types of therapy we typically recommend for young people. Sometimes, when a person – not you, of course -- is feeling nervous about going through a particular procedure it helps them to hear an accurate description of what to expect.”

Del suddenly smiled. “An’ you got a girlfriend!”

“Now how, I wonder, could someone with zero telepathic ability know that?” the caseworker replied, making a show of being puzzled.

“She a therapist,” the boy concluded eagerly, his black eyes searching Brown’s face as if for more clues. “Got her own place up in Chi-town... Specialty o' th' house – quelle surprise – is sensory deprivation therapy.” Del paused, grinned, and shook a finger at him. “I begin to smell a plan here, my man.”

Brown shrugged innocently. “Forest Oakes has an excellent sensory deprivation unit.”

“But not as good as that one up in Chicago, non?” The boy gave him a knowing wink. “I not never been up to Chi. They say you can hear some good blues there. We go up, I check out th' clubs while you an' your woman get your stress worked out, non?”

“It’s something we may talk about,” Brown conceded, silently reserving the prerogative to edit the proposed itinerary into something more strictly in keeping with CPS guidelines. “… if I continue to get good progress reports from your school and if I have some real test scores to work with from Forest Oakes.”

“Cho co!” Del grinned and shook his head. “Listen to him wheelin’ an' dealin’ like he a New Orleans boy.”

“Well, do we have a deal?”

The boy drew himself up into a very sage, adult pose. “It definitely somet'ing we can talk 'bout in the future.”

“That’s right,” Brown said, consulting his calendar. “You have a Christmas break from St. Mark’s coming up, don’t you?”

“Never, never,” Del assured him, “have I ever been so motherfuckin’ ready to celebrate the Blessed Savior’s birth, believe you me…”

“Do you have plans?”

The boy gave him a wry look. “‘Cause holidays an’ anniversaries are often difficult fo' the half-crazy?”

“They can be problematic for many people,” Brown replied neutrally. “So, do you have plans?”

The young man gave him a devilish smile. “Other than goin’ on a drunk an’ sittin’ in a graveyard?”

“Other than that.”

“Or buy a set of boxin’ gloves an’ beatin’ my old man’s ass?”

“Other than that.”

The boy shrugged. “If the weather stay good, we gonna go out on th' Gulf again.”

“And if the weather’s bad?” Brown pressed.

“You really worry 'bout me, non?” the boy chided mildly. “I expect then we go up to a li’l place near Mamou – do some huntin’ an’ fishin’, you know. mon oncle done decide we not stay in town this year.”

Brown made a note of the information. “It’s important to have a plan.”

The young man leaned back in his chair. “Me? I always got the plan.”

“Speaking of the Gulf…” Brown held out a hand. “Can I have my communicator back?”

The boy carefully put all four feet of his chair back on the floor. “Uh, 'bout that communicator…”

“Yes. About that communicator,” Brown repeated significantly. “How does your uncle like the new comm system in his boat?”

The young man winced. “You could tell?

"I couldn’t, but one of the systems operators noticed that the signal strength had changed.”

"Damn, you got some nosey people workin’ at that office,” the boy chided.

“Well, sometimes people aren’t always completely honest with us.”

“Mr. Brown, it was like this,” the boy explained in a very reasonable tone. “That comm system that was in that boat was in pretty shitty condition. We could barely get weather forecasts. Now if a hurricane had blown up…”

“In November?”

“Stranger things have happen,” the young man assured him. “So if a bad storm had blowed up an’ we capsized an’ drown…”

“Then what would be the use of all this schooling?” Brown guessed.

“Exactly.” The boy fished through his pockets. “That put me in mind -- I make you a li'l present.”

The young man handed him a small black screen.

“Now I know you probably get stuff like this fo' free all the time on your job,” Del began as Brown activated the small device. “But this one from me, special like. It fo' takin’ notes. I know you be takin’ th' notes all th' time. With this, once you enter something twice, it come up as an option from then on… An’ I put in some special answers, so you might wanna be careful what you choose. Like put in “When in conversation, the subject be…”

Brown smiled as he input the phrase. “Again, amazing that a complete non-telepath would know how much I use that phrase in my reports.”

“Motherfuckin’ remarkable, non?” Del agreed.

“All right. I’ve input 'When engaged in conversation, the subject is..' And your device has given me the option to finish the sentence with A) bright and charming, B) belligerent as a cornered possum, C) obviously possessed of pair of brass balls and a fourteen inch…” The caseworker couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing. “Yes, Del, I can see where that answer might raise a few eyebrows at headquarters. I will be careful. Thank you very much for this.”

“Il n’etait rien,” the boy replied, taking out another similar device. “An' this fo' your friend who sent me th' tools. It pretty much th' same thing as yours, but it a gentleman’s social ledger –a li’l black book, comprenez? I put a bunch of Cole’s old girlfriends in there jus’ to get him started, jus’ fo’ a joke, you know. But if he do wanna hook up wit’ some bitches that'll put out like…”

“I’m sure he will appreciate it,” the caseworker interrupted hastily.

“I put in Cole’s current girlfriend too,” Del admitted. “He need to break up wit’ her somet'ing awful.”

“Well, this was very thoughtful of you.” Brown smiled, genuinely touched by his charge’s generosity.

“Ah, it not'ing.”

“I am not allowed to give you presents,” Brown informed him apologetically.

“Oh, that all right,” the young man said, but sounded a little disappointed when he added, “I not expect not'ing.”

“However,” Brown took a small bag out of his larger bag. “Some of our office workers cleaned out a storeroom recently and asked me to dispose of a few things…”

“Oh, hell, yes!” the boy exclaimed, grinning broadly as he accepted the bag. “This gonna put some Joyeux in Noel.” He spread the odd assortment of spare parts, office supplies, and semi-functional gadgets out on the table before him as if they were a pile of diamonds and rubies. “Ooo… some definite possibilities here…”

“So how are things with your father?” Brown asked as the young man divided the booty into distinct collections of similar objects.

“‘Bout the same,” Del replied, not bothering to look up from his task. “'Though I t'ink if he not kinda like that he have to sneak ‘round to see her, he be ‘bout ready to drop that nasty ol’ bitch he wit’.”

Brown wondered if “nasty ol’ bitch” signified a promotion up from “whore.”

“Mos' the time, I stay out his way, he stay out mine,” the boy continued. “I not at th' house much now that I got my workshop set up pretty good. You know, I good enough now that I could ‘bout charge fo' what I do, but I not certified or licensed…”

The caseworker nodded. “Which means no repair shop could hire you.”

“Not upfront,” the young man confirmed. “An’ if you work out th' backdoor you not get paid shit an’ have to take th' shit jobs crawlin’ under peoples’ houses nobody else want.”

“Which, of course, you don’t do,” Brown said firmly. “Because it’s illegal and dangerous.”

“But o' course,” the boy agreed wryly.

“You can’t get licensed until you’re sixteen.”

“But,” he said, deftly dismantling a damaged illumination cube and sorting it out into its component parts. “If I start takin’ classes towards certification now, I could be good to go day after my birthday.”

“Keep your grades up,” Brown said, counting his requirements off on his fingers. “Maintain relationships good enough that at least three of your teachers would be willing to write letters of recommendation for you. Finish out this school year and next year I think a dual enrollment with a technical academy will not be outside the realm of possibility.”

Del rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Now we talkin’.”

“However, you a very bright person with an extraordinary amount of aptitude in this area,” Brown said, watching the boy re-pack the bag. “Rather than simply doing the minimum to get certified and immediately going to work, you may decide that you’d rather stay in school and specialize in some area of design, systems work, or engineering.”

“I dunno.” The young man frowned. “I really wanna get out th' house an’ on my own soon as I can.”

“I can understand that,” Brown conceded. “And that reminds me of something else I wanted to talk to you about. Should the situation with your father deteriorate, I’m assuming you would want me to seek to have guardianship transferred to your uncle rather than becoming a ward of the court?”

The boy made a face. “They try t' send me to an orphanage? Oh, hell no!”

“I thought as much. In that case, it’s very important that your uncle appear to be a fit guardian.”

“He 'bout nine hundred an’ fifty-seven million times better than my daddy,” Del replied emphatically.

“I know that, but it could be an issue if, for example, even a very cursory investigation were to reveal that he had unregistered weapons in his home...”

“Oh, shit,” the boy groaned, immediately recognizing – as Brown knew he would – that this was not merely hypothetical speculation.

“And his permits for his vehicles and boat were lapsed…”

“Sweet Mary...”

“And there were numerous unpaid fines from the Fish and Wildlife Commission… “

“Oh, hell…”

“So a little homework for the two of you may be in order,” Brown suggested.

Del tapped the side of his nose. “Word t' the' wise, non?”

The caseworker sighed dramatically. “If only you had some telepathic ability and could know what I was thinking without my saying it out loud…”

The boy shook his head as he rose, putting his bag of loot under one arm. “That joke jus’ not gettin’ old fo' you, is it?”

Brown smiled. “Merry Christmas, Del.”

“And a happier fuckin’ New Year, Mr. Brown,” the boy replied sincerely.

Theresa Rossi had moved to New Orleans from Seattle, Washington only a few months before. It seemed strange to her that in mid-February there were already dark pink buds on the trees outside the window of the small conference room at St. Mark’s Academy. It seemed strange that the sun was shining – but that was for other reasons.

She looked down at her data pad. She hadn’t had much time to go over these files. It was easy to tell that this child was one of Brown’s pet projects. Although the boy was flagged for potential alcoholism and was rated as a suicide risk, CPS usually let school guidance counselors handle problems of that nature. With regards for risk from the father, neglect, violence, and mental cruelty were only coded yellow – under investigation with no actionable evidence. Seven months was a long time for an agent to follow up on a yellow-flagged case. Senior agents in the department like Brown carried heavier caseloads and dealt with the most extreme situations, but had more leeway in determining which cases they wished to pursue and for how long. As junior staff, she was actively urged to move quickly from one red-flag case to another. She didn’t expect to be assigned for long-term follow-up on this one.

Although his grades were good, this boy was obviously a discipline problem. Rossi wondered about the extent to which Brown had intervened to prevent the child from being expelled or suspended. There were copious notes about a psychiatric evaluation. A psi-potentialities test was scheduled, but didn’t seem to be justified from the numbers reported from the first evaluation.

Their meeting in January had been cancelled because Brown had been suddenly called away to deal with an emergency.

The door opened behind her.

“Who th' hell are you?”

Rossi turned. Noel Christopher DelMonde (there was an emphatic note stating his preference to only be called “Del”) was much more handsome than the picture in his CPS file. He was a tall, good-looking boy with dark curls and beautifully shaped black eyes framed by long dark-lashes. He had the translucent, light-colored skin she associated with the mixed-race people they called “creole” here. His full, sensual lips were curved into a puzzled frown.

“I’m Theresa Rossi,” she held out a hand politely. “From CPS. You’ll be speaking with me today.”

He ignored her hand. “Where Brown?”

The department had instructed her not to discuss this morning’s incident with any of the agent’s cases. They would send counselors around tomorrow who specialized in…

“Grief?” The boy said, speaking her thought. His eyes went wide. “What th' hell?”

Rossi fleetingly wondered why his psi-rating was so low as the teenager gripped her by the shoulders.

“What th' hell goin' on here?” he demanded, giving her a hard shake.

“Okay, calm down,” she said, trying to keep her cool as well. She put his hands over his forearms and tried to pull his hands away. “Sit down and we’ll talk.”

His grip was too strong for her to break. “What th' hell?” he demanded, pulling here up out of her chair. “What th' hell?”

“Settle down!” she demanded. “Let me go!”

“Where Brown?” he asked, shaking her harder and harder. “Where Brown?”

Rossi hadn’t known the senior agent very well. Marcus Brown was a tall black man with plain features put a great air of dignity and reserve. He had the reputation of being a consummate professional who managed to be fair, kind, and tough as nails when necessary.

“Oh, God…” The boy’s grip loosened as his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, sweet Mother Mary, no…”

Rossi pulled away. She tried to get her breathing back under control as she straightened her jacket. “I want you to sit down right now,” she ordered, pointing to the chair on the other side of the desk.

More quickly than she could react, the boy grabbed her by her wrists and jerked her towards him. “Tell me!” he demanded between clenched teeth, his face inches from hers. “Tell me now!”

The most frightening thing for Rossi about the incident was that it could have happened to anyone in the department. Brown had arrived in the middle of a domestic dispute. Both parents were armed. He had physically intervened to get the two children out. The police had just arrived on the scene. It wasn’t clear which parent had shot him and which one had stabbed him and which of these had killed…

“NO!” The boy’s face crumpled. “NO! NO! NO! NO!”

Rossi didn’t know if the boy was still aware he had a grip on her as he beat his fists against the wall slamming her backwards again and again.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”

“Let me go!” Rossi tried to order, but it came out as a panic plea. “Let me go!”

“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”

Her vision had started to blur by the time the door opened and someone pulled the boy off her.

“C’mon, child,” a soothing male voice crooned. “C’mon, child.”

Another man was helping her into back into her chair.

“We sorry, Miss,” this newcomer said.

Rossi blinked her eyes. A young, light-skinned black man with features like a Spaniard was standing over her. An older man with white hair had his arms around the DelMonde boy, who was sobbing wildly.

“You not hold this 'gainst him, Miss,” the young man was saying, gently straightening her jacket and patting her hair back in place. “He done out his mind wit' grief now.”

“Who are you?” Rossi asked, dazed.

“We his family.”

The boy threw back his head and raged, “NO! NO! NO!” at the heavens once more before collapsing again on the older man’s chest.

“We hear ‘bout the other fella on the news,” the younger man was explaining. “Daddy knowed that Del was gonna take it hard. So we make tracks over here quick as we could. Sorry, he take it out on you.”

“C’mon, child,” the older man soothed, smoothing back the boy’s dark hair as he urged him towards the door, “C’mon now.”

“We ‘preciate all ya’ll try to do fo' Shorty,” the younger man said, rising to open the door for his father. “We awful sorry ‘bout this.”

The older man paused at the door. “Awful sorry,” he reiterated, hugging the sobbing boy tightly against him. “Sometime t'ings jus' not meant to be.”

Rossi was too stunned and shaken to move for a moment after they left. She looked out the window where the sun was still shining incongruously on the pretty buds in the trees. Her eyes dropped down to the data pad. On it was the last entry Brown had made – A heading “Plans for the Future.” Below the heading was an empty page.

The End