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Travis came home and Marshall chose to return to him, Angie withdrew again. Maggie made a note to call Angie and find out what was really going on.
    “Have you been taking your medication?”
    Marshall nodded. She wasn’t sure she believed him.
    Maggie didn’t always agree with the medication of children. It was, as far as she was concerned, a last resort. She lost a lot of young patients in her practice as a family and adolescent psychologist because she wouldn’t quickly call Dr. Willough for a referral prescription. But at nearly seventeen, Marshall wasn’t exactly a child anymore. And on his first visit to her, he’d been severely depressed. Not bipolar, not ADHD, not borderline—he’d had as many diagnoses over the years as he’d had therapists. But she’d seen him as so clearly in the throes of a clinical depression that she’d prescribed a mild antidepressant, wary of the risks.
    He seemed to have the right kind of supervision—an aunt who loved him, an uncle who appeared equally fond of him and concerned for his well-being, and, maybe most important, his cousins Ryan and Tim, who were healthy and well-adjusted, and who were inclined to take an interest in Marshall—bringing him to ball games, letting him work on the old car they were trying to restore, coaching him on how toapproach a girl he liked. She’d educated them on the risks of a depressed teen on medication, what signs to monitor. But he’d responded well.
    “Been in touch with Ryan and Tim?”
    “Yeah, we hang.” He looked above her now, not at her, still avoiding her eyes. He seemed to notice his bouncing knee and got it under control.
    “Come on, Marshall. Let’s cut through it, shall we? What’s going on?”
    He seemed to study the ceiling. When he looked back, he was smiling. She’d always liked his smile, sweet and boyish, as unexpectedly bright as a ray of sunlight through thunderheads. But this smile was ugly, sent a slight shiver through her.
    He leaned forward suddenly, staring straight at her. “You know what, Doc?”
    She gave him a tolerant, slow blink to show him that she was neither intimidated by him nor impressed by his shift in tone. It was striking, though, how his voice had gone from the dead, flat teenage monotone to something deeper, like a growl.
    “What is it, Marshall?”
    He issued a strange little chuckle. She fought the urge to shrink away from him, squared her shoulders and sat up. “I’m not sure I want you in my head anymore.”
    She put on her best cool smile, held his eyes, mineral green like a quarry lake.
    “Whether you come here or not is, of course, your choice,” she said.
    Some kind of battle took place on his face, the acne on his chin and forehead blazing an angry red. The corners of his mouth fell in a pantomime of sadness. His eyes went wide, as if he was about to cry, then narrowed down, ugly with distrust and anger.
    “Talk to me, Marshall.”
    She tried not to sound desperate, pleading. The mother in her wanted to sit close beside him, wrap him up and hold him tight. But she couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be able to accept that kind of love, even if she could offer it to him.
    He stood quickly then, raising himself to his full height, unslouchingthose perpetually hunched shoulders. She’d never realized how tall he was, always thought of him as a lean, lanky kid—never big or powerful, as he looked now. He must be nearly six feet, close to two hundred pounds , she thought with surprise. Involuntarily, she pushed herself back in her chair to rise. Her surprise must have registered on her face, triggering another battle on his. A nasty grimace won the war.
    She’d never witnessed the tendency for violence in him, was startled by what she saw this session. What had happened? What had changed?
    He bent over and picked up his battered backpack where it had rested near his feet, exiting without a glance back and closing the door quietly behind him. She sat for a full minute with her