Pulling in, I saw a couple of trucks and minivans. Right after me, a decrepit maroon Honda had pulled in and parked next to my Jag. The Honda's driver hadn't gotten out, just pulled down the windows.

Now walking back to my car, I peeked at the maroon car on the right. The driver, a very young blond man with sharp cheekbones, ate a sandwich. His car looked like a dump, with all those papers and clothes and newspapers swamping its seats. Even the car radio sounded fuzzy and out of tune, transmitting some weird talk show, as if several men were talking at once, describing their location and little observations: "12:15 Object One is in the parking lot," or "12:15 Object Ten stays at the office."

My sparkly clean Jag felt like a safe haven. Somehow, seeing other people's misery makes me appreciate what I have more. I drove back onto Main Street looking for Pike Road, finally spotted it and turned at the last moment. I found the number 2550 right away. It was especially easy, since several police cars were parked along the quiet street as a free attraction for a few local viewers.

Debbie shouldn't see me yet. That's why, getting ready in the morning, I put on my daughter's clothes: blue bellbottoms and a t-shirt with a yellow windbreaker. My red hair I hid under an NYU baseball cap. It was a decent outfit to become invisible in any crowd. The moment I approached Debbie's place, the entrance door opened, letting out two cops and a tall middle-aged man with cuffed hands. The man looked back at the house and smiled. He looked intelligent and handsome, and a little run down, like an old brick Georgian house.

"What's going on here?" I asked a woman in sweatpants and a t-shirt standing on the lawn.

"Her ex just got arrested for trespassing." She turned her head.

"Is it Debbie's ex?"

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants turned to me completely. Her gray and brown hair wildly went up in spirals.

Before I came up with a lie, the cops searching Debbie's ex's metallic Pathfinder popped its trunk and removed a long semi-automatic gun. They asked him for a gun permit; "In the glove compartment," he answered. After sorting through his papers, they found the permit. The police officers placed the gun in the trunk of the police cruiser and took off, leaving one behind to console Debbie.

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants poked my ribs with her elbow.

"Not really. I'm her new social worker. Just came down here from the district office to look at their place," I lied. "Do you know them?"

"They just moved in, you know. But we've already got some questions. You wanna hear this? By the way, I'm Meg. I work as a nurse at a local preschool. Wanna have a cup of coffee at my place? This is my house, just in front of us." Talking, she looked like a beaver with her protruding front teeth.

Her tiny kitchen was furnished with outdated but clean drawers and shelves and stuffed with craft items: heavy clay mugs, animal figurines, blue glass bottles of every shape and size, and glass pictures. Meg poured us a little coffee, talking non-stop.

Debbie and the kids had moved in a year ago. The house she stayed in was a rental, so lots of people lived there over time. Meg never knew them and tried to do her best to stay away.

"Interest rates are so low, everybody buys a house now. Who rents? Just young people and troubled families… Single mothers, like her."

She, herself, had a husband and was very proud of the fact, judging by a dozen shots of her and some bald guy stuck to the fridge door. Noticing me staring at the pictures, she said she was the only married woman at her daycare center.

"It's easy to get married," she said happily. "The trick is to keep your husband."

I couldn't agree with her more. I never managed this trick and saw Alexander as my last matrimonial endeavor.

Meg knew nothing of Debbie, but unfortunately, her son Ken was Matthew's classmate, and Matthew got in the habit of tormenting Ken.

"Is he a bully?" I asked, remembering suddenly that I was his social worker.

"He is… You know, we call these kids `without brakes.' As if he doesn't understand that people have feelings. He doesn't understand what he is doing."

I quickly learned from Meg that during six months of school, Matthew twice went to a psychiatric clinic. Once, for hitting his pregnant teacher in her bulging stomach, and next time, for setting the principal's car on fire.

"You know, I work with kids every day from seven to five. I mean, I would like a different job, but I can't get anything. I'm furious with Matthew, but pity him, too. You understand; he is not an evil boy. He just acts out of desperation, or something. It's all because of his father. I mean, there are police at their place every week, and every week the boy does something stupid. His father doesn't want to leave them alone. He doesn't want to give up. His mother doesn't want her ex back. Can you imagine this kind of mess?"

Meg explained how to find the school building, so I could look at the boy's personal record. Damn, Joe wanted me to talk to people about her, but didn't supply me with any helpful information.

The school was located just a couple of blocks away from Debbie's place in a sprawling cinderblock building with a "No Drug Zone" warning at the beginning of the driveway. I pulled up to the entrance and rang the bell. An elegant lady came from the other side, looked at me through the glass, and unlocked the door.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm the Coopers' new social worker, and I need to talk to the principal. I don't have an appointment. I just drove by."

"It's perfectly okay. I'm the principal. You can come in. Sorry, I can't spend a lot of time with you. School will be out soon. But I certainly can answer a couple of your questions."

It was quiet inside the school, like the eye of a hurricane. I followed the principal to her office, where she introduced me to the state of Matthew's affairs.

"You know, of course, the real reason Matthew Cooper is under the surveillance of the Children and Youth Department?" The principal looked straight into my eyes.

"Well, I just got his case. I'm not familiar with every detail."

"Then you are talking to the right person. Matthew is a pyromaniac. He's fascinated with fires."

Who isn't? I like to sit next to a fireplace and stare at the fire.

"There is always the possibility that he can set fire anytime and anywhere. Here, at school, we keep our eye on him. Home is a different story. His mother, Mrs. Cooper, works full time." The principal apologized and picked up the ringing phone.

"May I look at his personal records, please?" I asked the second she hung up the phone.

"Yes, of course," she said and walked to the door. "Nobody can see the students' personal records, but the school authorities. You are a social worker, so you have the right to view the materials also."

She disappeared behind the door and left me rejoicing quietly. Who said that school ladies are strict and unreachable? They are nice and very gullible. The principal came back with a thick folder in her elegant hands. It looked heavily read, with dog-eared pages, pictures of the burned car, and copies of the police reports.

"I apologize. I have to leave you for five minutes." The principal gracefully left the room.

It turned out that Matthew was fourteen, and that he used to have excellent grades in elementary school. Then something happened, and the boy lost touch with reality. Otherwise, why did all those incident reports suddenly come into the picture? Sorting through the papers, I finally found what I was looking for: the Coopers' old home address at Cherry Hill, which was printed on the top of some inquiry letter. In an emergency form, the phone number of Pitt Cooper, their father, was listed as a priority emergency contact. I copied the address and the number down and was about to return the documents when my cell phone rang.