Though I am reconciled to the firestorm of raw sensations my female clients often bring to my office, I continually marvel at the differences between the sexes. Popular culture now teaches men we should be crying, too-”getting in touch with our feelings”-as if they were physical objects that could be aroused as easily as an adolescent penis. Yet, somehow, I doubt if women (despite what they say) would be quite as attracted to us if we, too, went around sobbing.

“Your parents?” I guess. Though she seems on first glance more intelligent than this, she has probably dropped out of school and married a boy whose idea of success is fixing flats the rest of his life. Not so discreetly, I look at my watch. I’d like to be on the road by ten. Maybe one of my friends on the floor (Clan?) would like this melodrama. It will probably be the kind of case that requires a mediator rather than a litigator.

“No!” she wails.

“The Department of Human Services.”

I try not to wince, realizing how wrong I am. This is guaranteed to be a mess.

“Neglect or abuse?” I ask as gently as I can. My prospects of getting paid even fifty dollars seem dimmer than ever. It is always the poor who end up losing their kids.

Gina grits her teeth and then forces out the words:

“They’re saying I deliberately burned Glenetta in a tub of hot water, but it’s not true!”

Struck by the ferocity of her denial, I wait for additional tears, but there are none. Yet, almost no one, in my experience, unless confronted with indisputable evidence, would admit to such a horrible act. Surely she does not know I was once a caseworker for the same agency that is after her child. The burn cases were so nauseating I came to prefer investigating sex abuse.

“How bad,” I ask, fearing the worst, “is she burned?”

“Real bad,” the girl gasps.