The state child welfare caseworker, a woman named Mrs.

Gable, had just let the front screen door close behind her, leaving her business card propped against the salt shaker.

Clay sat in the wooden chair across from me, running his thumb over the official seal at the top of the first page.

“Temporary restriction of unsupervised parental access,” Clay read aloud, his voice breaking on the third word.

“It’s standard procedure when a formal child protection investigation opens,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the edge of the table.

“I left him with her, Mom,” Clay said, staring at the legal wording printed across the page.