“I did a little reading, before I came here,” he said. “You have a reputation.”
“I’ve treated hundreds of children, and with lasting results.”
Constable Roberts thought that if there had been a problem with her methods, there would be police reports by now. But when he had run her name through the system, there had been nothing.
“The boys—do they like this holding time?”
“What makes you think they wouldn’t?”
“Might explain the call I got.”
“All breakthroughs involve struggle, Constable. But none of the boys are ever harmed. I promise you that.”
He could think of nothing else to ask.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked.
“I’d like to speak to one of the children,” he said.
He waited on the porch, and soon enough, Martha brought a boy to him. He was small, and had narrow shoulders, which drooped down like wilted petals.
“This is Dennis.”
Constable Roberts walked Dennis over to a bench. He had a boy this age. His son and this boy were nothing alike. His son had perpetually grimy hands and wiggled when he walked. Dennis looked like he was carved out of concrete.
“Dennis, I understand you live here.”
The boy stared straight ahead. It was like he had turned his brain off.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The boy looked like he wasn’t going to answer.
“Does anyone hit you here?”
Dennis shook his head.
“How about restrict your food or water?”
A pause, and another shake.
“This new director, she does a kind of therapy called holding time. Have you had holding time?”
Dennis hesitated, then nodded.
“What is it like, son?”
The boy didn’t answer. He folded his mouth into a tight line.
“If there is something happening here, you can tell me.”
“Like what?” Dennis finally spoke.
“Like abuse.”
Dennis’s face showed his confusion. How was he to know what was abuse and what was not?
“What do you think of this place?”
