Personally, I like cops. Sure, they’re hard-asses and they can be authoritarian pricks, but by and large, they’re decent people trying to do a really difficult job.

Paul Noblecky is a beat cop who works out at the same gym as me. We’ve played basketball a few times and had a couple beers afterward.

“How’s it going, Noblecky?”

He cocks his head pleasantly. “Can’t complain.” He points to the kid I’m still holding by the scruff of his neck, like an errant puppy. “What’s this about?”

And before I can answer, the puppy says, “I was just messing around. Becker’s my babysitter. I told him I was faster than him and he said I wasn’t.”

My first instinct is to laugh, ’cause the kid definitely has a knack for bullshitting. Wonder if he’s ever considered a legal career—or a political one. My second impulse is to call him on it—rat him out—and toss him over to Noblecky. To walk away and wash my hands.

But something in his face . . . won’t let me. The look in his eyes—a mixture of desperation and bitterness. He’s hoping for my help, my mercy, but at the same time he hates that he needs it. And there’s an innocence about this boy that’s unlike the jagged exterior of true street kids. Something that tells me he’s still saveable.

And that he’s worth saving.

So I rub his head, messing up his hair, putting on a good show. “I told you I could take you.”

Noblecky laughs. “Someone actually let you watch their kid?” He glances at the boy. “My condolences.”

The kid flinches in response. It’s quick, almost unobservable. But I notice.

Noblecky nudges me with his elbow and says jokingly, “What do you charge?” He has a five-year-old at home. “If I don’t take Amy out to dinner soon, she’s going to divorce me.”

I shake my head. “It’s a one-shot deal. Kids aren’t my thing.”

He turns to go. “All right, see you around, Becker.”

“Take it easy,” I call as he walks away.

As soon as Noblecky is out of earshot I drag the kid across the sidewalk, closer to the wall of a building. I hold out my hand. “Give it back.”

He rolls his eyes, digs into his backpack, and slaps my wallet into my hand. I don’t think he had enough time to lift anything from it, but I check my cash and credit cards just to be sure.

Satisfied, I slide it into my pocket. “What’s your name?”

He glowers up at me. “You a cop?”

I shake my head. “Lawyer.”

“I’m Rory.”

“Rory what?”

“McQuaid.”

I look him over. White button-down shirt, beige pants—a private-school uniform. Add in the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers and J.Crew backpack and I have to ask, “Why’d you steal my wallet, Rory McQuaid?”

He kicks at the pavement. “I don’t know.”

Of course he doesn’t.

His shoulders lift. “Just to see if I could do it, I guess.”

Here’s the moment when I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with him now. Keeping him out of the system feels like the right move, but letting him skate scot-free doesn’t. He needs to learn stupid actions have consequences—bad ones—and he needs to know it now. If not, there’ll be worse decisions in his future, with more severe penalties than he’ll be able to pay.

I gesture with my hand toward the end of the block. “All right, let’s go.”

Rory stays right where he is. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You could be a child molester.”

I scowl. “I’m not a child molester.”

“Said every child molester ever.”

My eyebrows rise. “A pickpocket and a smartass, huh? Perfect. Must be my lucky day.” I raise my arm toward the end of the block. “I’m driving you home. I’ll tell your parents what you did, and they’ll deal with you.”

My mother used to get frequent house calls in the same vein—from teachers, guidance counselors, benevolent police officers. It never changed my attitude or my fucked-up behavior, but she always appreciated knowing what her son was really up to, even though she had to work too many hours to do anything about it.

A shadow falls over Rory’s face. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to steal anymore.”

“Said every thief ever.”

That gets a short, grudging laugh out of him. But he still hesitates.

“Look, kid, either I take you home and you face the music with your parents, or I bring Officer Noblecky back over here. It’s your call.”

He kicks at the sidewalk again and curses under his breath. Then he hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and meets my eyes. “Where’s your car?”

• • •

When we get to my Mustang, Rory climbs into the backseat and buckles his seat belt without being told. He gives me his address—only about ten miles outside the city—and we head out.

“Is your name really Becker?” he asks after a few minutes.

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah—Jake Becker.” Then I ask a question of my own. “How old are you, kid?”

“I’ll be ten in five months.”

I nod slowly. “Also known as nine.”

He smirks. “And you called me a smartass.”

Otherwise, he’s quiet during the drive, staring out the window. But after we turn off Rock Creek Parkway, when huge, ancient oak trees line the road and the street names turn to Whitehaven, Foxboro, and Hampshire, and the driveways become gated and long, Rory turns even more sullen. It comes off him in brooding, hostile waves, in the clench of his hand and the tensing of his shoulders.