And just as they pass Freddie, everything becomes a controlled frenzy of activity. Freddie is suddenly on the other side of Robyn. Bart and Freddie have her and are forcing her across the street. Robyn sees the van and begins a frantic struggle. As the trio jerk and heave closer, I can see the fury and terror in Robyn’s eyes. Through the thin metal of the van I hear her erupt in screams which are quickly muffled by Freddie’s gloved hand. “Oh baby,” I whisper.

Onlookers barely give the unfolding scene a half second’s attention; nothing more than an uninterested glance. Just another wild night in the City.

The double doors at the back of the van explode open and suddenly Robyn and I lock eyes. Her face is instantly a convulsion of recognition and indignation. I imagine too, that I see a desperate plea for help, though if I am scrupulously honest with myself, I do not see that. Her face contorts into a blaze of rage and fury and from her covered mouth she attempts an incendiary scream, which Freddie’s hand again muffles.

Bart has Robyn’s bottom half firmly gripped in an unyielding bear hug while Freddie is somehow able to control her arms. Her body writhes with a choleric violence as they gently ease her on her back on the carpeted floor of the van.

“The bag!” Freddie says. His voice is taut but controlled.

Bart heaves his girth across Robyn’s legs and twists to his right, yanking the black canvas bag within Freddie’s reach. Freddie tugs at the zipper of the bag, and within seconds extracts two sets of Velcro restraints. Bart marshals one set on Robyn’s ankles and then slaps the second set around her wrists, now bound in front of her body. Freddie begins digging around in the bag.

With Freddie’s hand off Robyn’s mouth, she detonates into a diatribe of profanity.

“What the hell are you doing? Let me go, damn it!”

Suddenly, from the depths of the black bag Freddie draws out a syringe.

“What are you doing?” I shout over Robyn’s tirade.

“It’s necessary,” Bart growls.

Bart lobs me a grave look as Freddie wrenches the cap off the syringe, jabbing the needle into Robyn’s arm. She lets out a squeak of pain and within seconds her body falls slack. Her eyes roll back and her eyelids flutter closed.

“What did you give her?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice at seeing my daughter’s inert form. I am already out of my seat, stroking her hair back from her face, caressing her cheeks, her forehead.

“Relax,” Freddie says. “It’s sodium thiopental.” And with that he slams the double doors closed.

Did I envision such drastic steps when I was filling my little bag with crackers and magazines and bottles of water? Did I think, as Bart warned, that Robyn would come along willingly, grateful for my parental intervention? The truth is, as I sit, cradling my daughter’s limp body in my arms, I don’t really know what I thought.

I only know that as Freddie wheels the van out of San Francisco and speeds into the black maw of night, I am filled with a profound yet subdued sense that everything is suddenly right with the world.

I plug my key into the lock of the front door and let myself into the house. It’s only eleven thirty in the morning and already it is sizzling outside. The house isn’t much cooler. My muscles groan with exhaustion and my eyes feel like two round smoldering orbs of lava. Inside, familiar smells surround me; filaments of Robyn’s Hello Kitty body spray and the floral scent of used dryer sheets wend their way through me. And then the stink of old booze.

I glance at the small table by the front door and spy Rob’s keys. Fatigue jettisons from my bones and my body is suddenly nearly oscillating with white-hot rage.

“Hey Baby,” Rob says. He stands at the entrance to the kitchen. “I made coffee.”

His body language is the very definition of contrition, yet I feel so angry that I don’t dare open my mouth to respond. I stomp into the kitchen, tossing my bags onto a chair and then, crossing to the counter and the coffee pot, punch the ‘off’ button.

“How did it go?” Rob’s voice is behind me. “Is Robyn in that place?”

I say nothing, just stay focused on breathing.

“Your mom called.”

I remain silent.

On the kitchen table, next to my stand of pills is a large box of Hostess powdered sugar donuts.

“I bought donuts,” he says needlessly.

I snatch one of the small prescription bottles and ground the child-proof cap into the heel of my palm, but I can’t get the lid to release.

“I’m sorry,” I feel Rob’s hand on my shoulder and I jerk away. At the same time the cap flies off the bottle and a spray of orange and white capsules showers the table and floor.

“Look, I know I really screwed the pooch on this one-”

“Don’t!” I spit out.

I spin around, leaving the mess of pills and head to the bathroom. I need a shower.

“Baby, wait,” Rob says, his voice laden with penitence. “You’re right,” he says, lumbering behind me. “I know. I’ve got a problem. I wasn’t here last night because I got arrested. Drunk and disorderly. But it wasn’t my fault; some asshole at the bar decided he needed to pick a fight with me. And then the cops, they told me they wouldn’t let me call until I sobered up.”

I reach our bedroom and stand in the middle of the room, suddenly unable to move further. On the dresser is a framed picture of the three of us standing in front of the house we used to rent on Orchard Avenue back in Aztec, the day we brought Robyn home from the hospital. She is a tiny chrysalis of blankets in my arms. The look on my face I suddenly realize isn’t so much happiness as it is apprehension. Rob’s eyes follow mine to the picture on the dresser.

“I was thinking,” Rob begins. “Maybe after Robyn gets out of that place, we could move back to Aztec. But we wouldn’t have to stay with your Mom or anything,” he quickly adds. He prattles on about eking it out, how sort of romantic it would be starting all over, just living the simple, unencumbered life.

“And I swear to you,” he says. “I’d go to A.A. I would. I think I even remember where meetings were; behind that First National Bank, on Chaco Street.”

His voice is distant, like a radio station that only partially comes in so that I hear only every other word or so. I am suddenly tired, I feel like now I can finally sleep. Really sleep for a thousand years without a care, now that Robyn is safe and sound. I collapse to the bed. I sit slumped and mop the hair off my forehead and with it a sheen of sweat. Rob stops his little fairy tale and peers at my face.

“Are you okay?”

His arm finds my shoulders.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Nothing,” I murmur, my eyes staring blankly at my lap.

He sits beside me, cloaking me. The pong of stale sweat curdles my nostrils. It seems a Herculean effort to say even a single word, but I manage.

“What did you say?” he asks, his voice filled with anxiety.

I turn and meet his gaze.

“Please, just leave.” My voice is as dry as dead leaves. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”