The door opened, no chain this time. "You some kind of fool or what?" she asked.

I followed her in, the door closed again and bolted behind. It was the kind of apartment I'd seen on dozens of similar occasions before. Kitchen, living room, two small bedrooms. Neither neat nor clean, with dirty clothes strewn on furniture, paper bags littering the floor, KFC and McDonald's containers stacked in piles on end tables and bookshelves that hadn't seen a book in half a century.

She'd pulled the blinds and covered most of the windows with drapes and what looked like sheets or pillow-cases, so it was almost as dark as the hallway inside, but the corner of a sheet over the upper half of the kitchen window had fallen off and let in some daylight. "This is my baby, Keeshiana," Mrs. Jefferson said. The child was at the kitchen table. A sweet-looking diminutive six-year-old in a red T-shirt, her arms rested in front of her, hands clasped.

I didn't put out my hand, kept everything low-key, nodding only. "My name's Wyatt." I gave her my professional smile, and she nodded back warily. I turned to the mother. "Maybe we could all sit a minute?" And pulled out a chair. "So, Letitia," I began to the mother, "is that what they call you?"

"Lettie."

"Lettie, then."

But she cut me off, suddenly angry. "My momma got no call putting you on us. I ain't done nothing wrong, just protectin' me and my baby from evil."

"From evil?"

"Satan," she said.

"The devil?"

"Right."

"Is he after you in some special way?"

"He tole me. Said if she went out, he'd take her. He wants her bad."

"When did he tell you this?"

"Couple of weeks now. I seen him, you know."

"Where?"

She tossed her head. "Just out there."

"In the hallway?"

A nod. "And outside, too. That's why I got the windows covered. So he can't see in, know she's here."