I’d expected a story along these lines, but hadn’t anticipated how completely he was trapped.

“Other than medicine, from which I am barred,” Cicero said, “there’s nothing I’m equipped to do that would bring home anything close to what I need to survive without adequate health insurance. And if I did find work, there is one hospital, two clinics, and a number of medical professionals with claims to my future earnings. Right now, I’m referring my creditors to the legal precedent of Blood v. Turnip.”

I said the necessary, inadequate thing. “There’s got to be some way to get around the rules. Somebody’s got to see that the situation’s ridiculous. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

Cicero laughed. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s the result of a daisy chain of misfortunes. If only I weren’t banned from the only profession in which I can make a viable income. If only I hadn’t chosen that particular mine to work at. And so on.

“Everyone does see it’s ridiculous. Finding a way around it is a different story. The medical social worker at the rehab clinic in Colorado decided I should come to Minneapolis, because my brother Ulises was here. Once here, I was assigned a caseworker who was 23 and stumped. She got me disability checks, and that was it. It’s not her fault. The system isn’t set up to handle individual circumstances. Nobody is authorized to change the rules or interpret the subtleties. Everybody would like to help you, but no one actually can.”

“That can’t just be the end of it,” I said, turning my palms up, fingers splayed.

Cicero surveyed me. “You don’t cohere sometimes,” he said. “You seem so world-weary on the surface, but under the surface you have these veins of naive faith in the system.” He shrugged. “But I’ve told you a good deal more than I thought I would, and I still didn’t answer your original question.”

“What original question?” I honestly couldn’t remember.

“Exactly,” Cicero said. “I was telling you about the mine accident. What I might not have made clear was that I spent sixty-one hours lying in a space with dimensions only slightly more generous than a grave.” He paused. “Since then, I have a very hard time with enclosed spaces. I’m not agoraphobic, I’m claustrophobic. It’s why I rarely go out.”

“The elevator,” I said, understanding.

“That goddamned elevator,” he agreed. “I’m not afraid of a six-minute descent; it’d be hard, but I could do it. But if I got trapped, I’m not sure if I could take it.” There was shame in his averted gaze. “God knows it’s stupid.”

“Fears are irrational,” I said. “I’m living proof of that.”

Cicero didn’t respond, tipping his head back to observe the lights of a plane. MSP was to the south of us, and the jetliners climbed across the city’s airspace with assembly-line regularity. In twenty hours, their passengers could be anywhere in the world. Down here was Cicero, whose world had become so small that, for him, ascending one flight of stairs to see the night sky was a journey.

“But if you stay in all the time,” I said, “how are you getting food, groceries?”

“From my patients,” Cicero explained. “I’m not a strictly cash business; I trade in favors and services, too.”

“What about meeting people?” I said.

“They come to me,” Cicero said. “Dripping blood or coughing, but I take them as they come.”

“Women, I mean.”

“Ah, yes, women,” Cicero said. “Who wouldn’t want to date an insolvent paraplegic?”

“ Cicero,” I reproved him.

“Sarah,” he said, “don’t make a project out of me.” His tone said the subject was off-limits. I dropped my gaze, accepting his rebuke.

“Things were better when I first came to Minneapolis,” he said. “Ulises had a ground-floor apartment- no elevator needed- and I had a van. Nothing great, but it had hand controls, and it ran.” He paused. “I’ve still got the van, downstairs, but I might as well sell it. It’s not doing me any good now, and one of the kids down the hall has to go down once a week and start it, so it doesn’t just die of neglect.”

This part of his story raised an obvious question. “ Cicero,” I said, “where’s your brother now? You said they sent you here to live with him.”

Cicero ’s dark eyes seemed more sober than they had been only a moment ago. “I did live with him,” he confirmed. “That’s a story for another time.”

“I thought you had no secrets,” I reminded him.

“I don’t,” Cicero said. “But it’s probably not a story you want to hear on top of the one I just told.”

“Is he dead?” I persisted.

“Yes,” Cicero said. “He’s dead.”

I shook my head, eyes lowered. “Jesus,” I said.

“Don’t look like that,” he said.

“Jesus, Cicero.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Sarah,” Cicero said.

“I don’t,” I said. I’m not sure if I was lying.

There were three of us in Judge Henderson’s chambers: the judge himself, a graying-haired black man who said little; Lorraine, a social worker; and me.

“It’s not a typical situation,” Lorraine was saying. “I was at the house, and it’s all as Detective Pribek described it. The home is clean, the children are attending school. There are no small children in the home. The youngest is 11, with the others at 14, 16, and 17. The daughter was very forthcoming and cooperative when I made the visit.”

“And the father?” Judge Henderson asked. His voice was low and pleasant, like the rumble of thunder on a distant horizon.

Lorraine leaned forward. “He’s recuperating slowly. He was moved from acute care at HCMC to a convalescent home, and he’s expected to make a fairly good recovery, with the most serious problem being a lingering speech disorder. The daughter is seeking conservatorship.”

The judge nodded. “Through a lawyer, I trust.”

“Certainly,” Lorraine said.

I glanced up at the Roman numerals on the face of the judge’s clock. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. So far, I wasn’t sure why I was there. I’d thought that they needed me to talk about what I knew of the Hennessy family situation, since I was the one who’d made the child-at-risk report. But thus far I hadn’t been asked a single question.

“Well, it seems you’ve been thorough, as always.” Judge Henderson leaned back in his chair, so far that the top of his balding head nearly disappeared into a glossy green plant on his bookcase. “Detective Pribek, this is where you come in.”

Lorraine turned to me also. “We have a pilot program, for situations in which minors seeking emancipation are paired up with suitable adults to supervise them for a probationary period. It’s only being done, of course, in cases where the minor is considered a good candidate and they have no adult relatives who can fill such a role.”

“You want me to be a guardian to the Hennessy children?” I said.

“Not quite a guardian, more like a watchful eye,” Lorraine said.

“I have no background in social work,” I reminded her.

“But you are a responsible law-enforcement professional, and you seem to have had more contact with these kids than anyone else.” She paused. “Marlinchen Hennessy is an extraordinarily good candidate for guardianship, and she’s only weeks away from her eighteenth birthday. We’re not comfortable leaving the children on their own for that amount of time, but sending the children into foster care seems, well, ludicrous.”

Hedging, I said, “I’m not sure Marlinchen would agree to it.” I was thinking of how we’d left things between us.

“In fact, when I made my home visit, the oldest daughter spoke highly of you,” Lorraine said.

“Only daughter,” I corrected her. Marlinchen Hennessy had no sisters.

Lorraine smiled, and I realized I’d stepped into a trap, revealing myself as someone who’d invested time and energy into knowing this young family. I sighed.