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Starling had not been out of the room long when Mason Verger tooted the endmost pipe and said, “Cordell?” The male nurse from the playroom came in and read to him from a folder marked DEPARTMENT OF CHILD WELFARE, CITY OF BALTIMORE.

“Franklin, is it? Send Franklin in,” Mason said, and turned out his light

.

The little boy stood alone under the bright overhead light of the seating area, squinting into the gasping darkness.

Came the resonant voice, “Are you Franklin?”

“Franklin,” the little boy said.

“Where do you stay, Franklin?”

“With Mama and Shirley and Stringbean.”

“Does Stringbean stay there all the time?”

“He in and out.”

“Did you say ‘He in and out’?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Mama’ is not your real mama, is she, Franklin?”

“She my foster.”

“She’s not the first foster you’ve had, is she?”

“Nome.”

“Do you like it at your house, Franklin?”

He brightened. “We got Kitty Cat. Mama make patty-cake in the stove.”

“How long have you been there, at Mama’s house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you had a birthday there?”

“One time I did. Shirley make Kool-Aid.”

“Do you like Kool-Aid?”

“Strawberry.”

“Do you love Mama and Shirley?”

“I love, um hum, and Kitty Cat.”

“Do you want to live there? Do you feel safe when you go to bed?”

“Um hum. I sleep in the room with Shirley. Shirley, she a big girl.”

“Franklin, you can’t live there anymore with Mama and Shirley and the Kitty Cat. You have to go away.”

“Who say?”