I spat.

“This is why I became a dentist. To be able to aid patients in need, to stop their suffering, to make their lives just a little bit better. I want you to know this, Victor, I need you to know this. All I ask for in the world is a chance to help. You’ll have to come back in a week.”

I tried to say something, but it came out like mush, and after a while I just stopped.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Bob, as if he had understood every word. “Now, Victor, I need to warn you. The blood will clot over the hole. That is good. It protects the wound, it aids in the healing. Do nothing to disturb the clot, or the consequences can be dire. Do not prod it with a toothpick, do not worry it with your tongue. Cigarettes, alcohol, carbonated beverages like pop can all disturb the clot. Do you understand?”

I nodded, felt for the wound with my tongue.

“Good,” he said. “Tilda will finish up. See you in a week.”

He ripped off his bloodstained gloves, tossed them gallantly into the biohazard bin on his way out of the office.

Tilda, whose broad back was to me as she worked over a counter, spun around. In each hand, wielded like weapons, were little boxes covered in cellophane.

“Stop your whimpering and make a decision, ja,” she said. “Which color for your toothbrush, green or blue?”

I was still licking my wound, literally, when the social worker assigned to my pro bono case, Isabel Chandler, pulled up in front of my office building in her jaunty yellow Volkswagen. She smiled brightly at me and said those sweet words all men are longing to hear.

“What happened to your face?”

“Let’s just go,” I said.

We were off to visit my four-year-old client, Daniel Rose, and his mother, Julia, to check out their living conditions, to ensure that Julia was taking proper care of her son, and to impress upon her the need to show up in court at the assigned times and to follow all recommendations of Children’s Services.

“She should be home this time,” said Isabel. “I called just before I left to make sure she remembered. She said she’s waiting for us.”

“Which means she won’t be there,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“She won’t be there,” I said slowly.

“What’s with your mouth?”

“I lost a tooth.”

“You ought to find it, before the rest of your mouth collapses.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Julia better be there,” said Isabel. “The judge is losing patience.”

“I’d say the judge’s patience with Julia is already lost.”

“I meant with you,” said Isabel.

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“The judge wants more from you in this case than just showing up. She wants you to give her a solid recommendation about what’s best for your client.”

“I’m having a hard enough time keeping my own life straight. How would I know what’s best for a four-year-old?”

“That’s the trick, isn’t it?”

“I’ll just do whatever you tell me to do.”

“No, see, Victor, that’s not good enough. I have to consider the best interests of everyone involved, including Julia and the state. You, on the other hand, have only Daniel’s interests to consider. And you have enough time to learn what you need to learn, that is if you’re willing to put in the effort. Are you, Victor?”

“He’s my client,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Pretty much everything,” I said.

“Okay, then. So this tooth thing, did it hurt much?”

“Like two squirrels fighting in my mouth.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” I said.

We weren’t headed too far away, just over the Schuylkill River, past the University of Pennsylvania, into the heart of West Philly.

Isabel parked on the street, near a small bodega and a Chinese take-out place, its counter swathed in Plexiglas. It was a crowded, jaunty West Philly neighborhood, some of the row houses cracked and run-down, some brightly painted, with AstroTurf on their porches. Kids played, old ladies sat on folding chairs and surveyed their domain, a dragon on the sign of a tattoo parlor sneered at passersby.

Down the street we walked together, in our suits, with our briefcases. We would have looked less out of place in hula skirts.

“Here,” she said when we reached a corner bar called Tommy’s High Ball.

“What, are we going for a drink first?”

“That might not be a bad idea, but no.” She motioned to a door next to the tavern entrance. “Julia lives with her boyfriend and Daniel in a single room above the bar.”

“Nice wholesome environment.”

“It’s a home,” she said as she rang a buzzer beside the door.

While Isabel waited for an answer, I opened the door to Tommy’s High Ball and glanced inside. Not too crowded, not too smoky, not too dark. It wasn’t quite a clean, well-lighted place, but it seemed friendly enough. A few men sat at the bar, a group of men played cards in a booth in the rear. And just to the left of the door, beneath the neon signs in the window, two men hunched over a chessboard while a third man stood and watched. One of the players pushed a piece forward before turning his head and looking at me.

Cragged face, red bow tie, black porkpie hat. Horace T. Grant. Of course it was.

I was about to raise my hand and shout out, “Hey, Pork Chop,” when Horace T. Grant did something strange. He looked at me, raised one eyebrow just enough to let me know he recognized my face, and then turned back to the board without a word.

Well now, I know how to take a hint, and I remembered what Horace had told me about anonymity as he devoured his chickenpox muffin, so I didn’t yell out or wave or even wait there for him to look again my way. I turned back to the bar, nodded at the too-tall bartender with the shocking white hair who was giving me the eye, and slipped back outside, where Isabel still waited at the door.

“She’s not answering,” said Isabel.

“She’s not there,” I said.

“Maybe the buzzer’s broken.”

“It’s not broken. Did you try the door?”

She looked at me, looked at the door, pressed it open.

We climbed the stairs, dark and damp, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes leaking in from the bar, and reached a painted wooden door on the second level.

Isabel rapped the door lightly with her knuckles. Rapped it again.

Nothing.

I knocked less lightly, pounding at the wood with the bottom of my fist. “Ms. Rose,” I yelled. “I am Daniel’s court-appointed lawyer. We have come for a court-ordered visit. Ms. Rose, you need to open up.”

Nothing.

“She’s not here,” I said.

“But she promised. She said she was waiting for us.”

“She doesn’t want us in her life. Or maybe, more interestingly, somebody else doesn’t want us in her life.”

“Too bad,” said Isabel, taking out a phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the judge. She’ll issue a bench warrant.”

“And then what? How soon do you think the police will get around to looking for her? And when they do start looking, and if she does get picked up, then what? What happens to Daniel?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Follow me,” I said.

“Where to?”

“Just follow.”

I climbed down the steps, pushed through the front door. Isabel hesitated a moment before following.

At the corner Horace was leaning against the brick wall of the bar, a chessboard and box in his hand. I walked by him without so much as a nod. I knew where I was going, I had already traced the route on a map in my office. I turned right, turned left at the next intersection.

These were all row houses now, more in disrepair than those on the commercial street, cracked porches, peeling paint, trees shriveling in the little plots of land between the cement of the sidewalk and the asphalt of the street.

And there it was, a quiet house on a quiet block, shades drawn, lights out, nothing.