I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. “I’ve got lots of stuff in here. Box games and dolls and clay and Play-Doh. Paper and pencils, too. And crayons, if you like to draw in color.”

“Why should I do that?” she said.

“Do what, Melissa?”

“Play or draw? Mother said we were going to talk.”

“Your mother was right. We are going to talk,” I said. “But sometimes kids who come here like to play or draw before they start talking. While they get used to this place.”

The hands kneaded faster. She looked down.

“Also,” I said, “playing and talking can help kids express how they feel- help get their feelings out.”

“I can get my feelings out,” she said, “by talking.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

She took a place on the leather sofa and I sat opposite her in my chair. She looked around some more, then placed her hands in her lap and stared straight at me.

I said, “Okay. Why don’t we start by talking about who I am and why you’re here. I’m a psychologist. Do you know what that means?”

She kneaded her fingers and kicked the couch with her heel. “I have a problem and you’re the kind of doctor who helps children who have problems and you don’t give any shots.”

“Very good. Did Jacob tell you all that?”

She shook her head. “My mother. Dr. Wagner told her about you- she’s my mother’s friend.”

I remembered what Eileen Wagner had said about a brief chat, about a little girl wandering and hiding in a big, spooky house, and wondered what friendship meant to this child. “But Dr. Wagner met your mother because of you, didn’t she, Melissa? Because of your call to the help line.”

Her body tightened and the little hands kneaded faster. I noticed that her finger pads were pink, slightly chafed.

“Yeah, but she likes my mother.”