swear to God Iâm not going to do anything to make it worse. And speaking of which ⦠there was a message on my machine saying Jimmyâs six-month review is coming up next month.â
George sighed. âIt would have been so much better if heâd gone to trial.â
âTop lawyers and a ton of money,â she commented. âAnd he is one of the most psychically damaged people Iâve ever known.â
âAre you getting any sleep?â
âSome, not much. Thank God Max sleeps through the night. So I canât blame this on him, if anything just watching him helps. Some nights Iâll just stare at him, wondering how something so beautiful could have come out of me. But I still wake up every couple hours and my thoughts go a mile a minute ⦠and my dreams. In the morning I feel like Iâve been running laps, like Iâm about to jump out of my skin. Although â¦â
âWhat?â
She took a sip of iced tea. âI went on an outreach this morning with one of the social workers.â
âReally? Youâre the director now; you could have sent someone else.â
âIt was one of my regulars, a young man with schizophrenia, whom Iâve known for years. Seems he picked up a dope habit. Anyway, he called in a panic and begged me to come out. Said he wanted to get back on meds and go to a hospital. I should have known something was up.â
âBecause?â
âI really like Jerod, one of these guys that under all of the badness heâs been through, and his low-level crimes, mostly to get food or drugs, you know heâs a good person. I mean half the time whatever he steals he gives away. But hereâs the thing, he hates being on meds and he hates being locked up; it makes him nuts. So he wants us to meet him down in the Lower East Side, says heâs too scared to bring himself to an emergency room.â
âI donât like where this is going,â George said.
In spite of her funk, Barrett cracked a smile. âSo we go down there, and we pull up to one of those buildings that if a building inspector ever showed up would be condemned. No working security door, broken steps, graffiti in the hallways â¦â
âFor the love of God, Barrett. Are you about to tell me you dragged some poor social worker into a crack house without a police escort?â
âWhen you say it like that ⦠what am I doing in this job, George?â
Houssman chortled. âStop fishing ⦠no one else wanted it, or at least no one competent. So did you find your schizophrenic junkie with the heart of gold?â
âHis nameâs Jerod,â she said, feeling a twinge of annoyance, and not liking the way George so easily put labels on people. âNot then, what we did find was two suburban-looking dead teenagers, and there was someone else in that building, someone who didnât want us there.â
âSo what youâre telling me is that you nearly got yourself and some poor crisis worker killed this morning, is that about right?â
âThe funny thing is, here Iâm swimming in jitters, always feeling like Iâm on the verge of a panic attack, but not when I was in that building. Itâs like all of that had evaporated, and for a few minutes I started to feel like myself again.â
âOh, good,â George said dryly, âmortal danger as a cure for panic disorder. You should be on meds. You breast-fed for four months, switching to formula is not going to make a hill of beans difference.â
âNo.â
âThen therapy at least.â
âYeah, right. With my crappy cash flow Iâm going to shell out a couple hundred bucks a week for therapy? I donât think so. Besides, Iâve got you.â She pictured George, sitting in the living room of his sun-drenched apartment in a dated brown suit, his eyes big behind Coke-bottle lenses, his gray hair uncombed and sticking up at odd