Finally, a young girl's voice, thin and timid: "Who is it?"

"Child Protective Services," Bettina said softly. "Open up, please."

"I'm not allowed."

"You're not allowed not to, honey. Is that Tammy?"

After a hesitation, the voice asked, "How do you know that?"

"Your school called us to check on you. They're worried about you and your brother. You've missed a lot of days."

"We've been sick."

"That's what they said."

"We'd just like to make sure you're okay," I put in.

"We might still be contagious."

"We'll take that chance, Tammy," Bettina said. "We're not allowed to go away until we see you."

"If you don't let us in," I added, "we may have to come back with the police. You don't want that, do you?"

"You don't need to call the police," Tammy said. "We haven't done anything wrong."

Effortlessly tag-teaming with me, Bettina spoke. "Nobody's saying you did, honey. We just want to make sure everything's okay in there. Is your brother with you?"

"He's okay, except he's still sick."

"How about your mom? Is she there with you? Or your dad?"

"We don't have a dad."

"Okay, your mom, then."

"She's sleeping. She doesn't feel good, either. She's got the flu, too."

"Tammy," keeping a rising sense of concern out of my voice, "we need to come in right now. Please, open the door."

A couple of seconds more and we heard the lock turn, and there she was. Remarkably composed and reasonably well dressed, I thought immediately, for a girl who was clearly starving to death.

Bettina went down on one knee. I heard her asking, "Tammy, honey, have you had anything to eat lately?" while I opened the door and passed behind them, half-hearing the young girl's response: "Some bread."