We didn't go out into the field again until Wednesday. We spent all day Tuesday shadowing Cassie in her office. Most of the footage would become b-roll, Josh told me, to help breakup long periods where Cassie or the narrator would be speaking. I helped Josh set up a crude, makeshift stage to interview Cassie. Against the white cinderblock walls of the hallway outside her office, with the giant work light that Josh had somehow crammed into the back of the Volvo, it almost looked professional.

I woke up on Wednesday morning and briefly pondered staying in bed. I had agreed to meet Charlie and was beginning to wonder if I could get out of it. I could send him an apology text and say I was sick, or that something had come up at work. I could tell him my friend Chelsea had died and I would need to attend her funeral. I could say nothing and ignore him forever. I did none of those things. Instead, I got out of bed, made a mug of coffee, and got ready for work.

We pulled up outside a hair salon in Flatbush an hour after meeting Cassie at her office. The front door to the salon was open despite the cold, and I could see several women working on clients inside. Signs in the window advertised Caribbean dreadlocks, curls, afros, and other styles for type 4 hair. The faint scent of coconut oil drifted through the open door.

"This is the place," Cassie said.

"A hair salon?" I asked.

"The apartment's above the hair salon," Cassie clarified. I felt like an idiot.

There was a peeling, white-painted door next to the salon entrance. The brass knocker had long-since faded to a dull gray. Cassie tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. The door groaned as she eased it open and made a note in her notepad. Dead leaves had gathered in the doorway. Josh stood on tiptoe with the camera balanced on his shoulder and zoomed in past Cassie's head, focusing in on the unlit, concrete stairwell.

The hallway had a haze over it. The first (and only) time I ever went to a party in college, some kids were smoking weed in a back corner and the whole room became enveloped in a thin fog. At first, I thought that someone was doing the same thing in the stairwell. Nick switched on a portable lighting unit, however, and I quickly realized that the fog was actually made up of dust particles.

Cassie led us up three flights of stairs. We had to take them single-file. Josh stood behind Cassie, filming over her shoulder while Nick held the lighting rig and I followed with the camera cases. We stopped on the fourth floor landing. There were two doors opposite each other, both unlabeled and painted in the same peeling, blue paint.

Cassie hesitated, then approached the door on the right. "Hang back," she murmured as she rapped on the door. There was no answer. She tried again. Nothing.

The door across the hall opened and an older woman appeared. She wore a hair wrap and a long, faded pink nightgown. "Yes?" she asked. Her tone was clipped and her eyes darted from Cassie to Josh to Nick to me and back.

Cassie turned to face her. "Hi," she said. Her voice was warm but wary. Like my mother's when Ava used to show up at our apartment. "I'm looking for Marie-Cecille. Is that you?"

The older woman shook her head. "No, I'm Dominique. Marie-Cecille is my neighbor."

"Do you know where she might be?" Cassie pressed.

"Who are you?" Dominique folded her arms. "I've never seen you around before."

"My name is Cassandra Derby. I'm with Children and Family Services."

Dominique mulled it over for a moment. "This about the baby?" Cassie nodded. "Marie-Cecille is downstairs. She works in the salon. I'll go get her."

Dominique returned a few minutes later with another woman. Marie-Cecille was not as young as Lupita, and not as small. Her shoulders were broader, her chest more full. Her skin was dark and her hair was pulled back in tight braids. Something about her reminded me of "Crazy Hat" Evelyn Rand. Maybe it was her ample figure or her full cheeks. Or maybe it was the way motherhood radiated through every part of Marie-Cecille. It was in the way she carried herself. There was a softness there that I'd only ever seen in the mothers in my life. Mine. Maya's.

"Marie-Cecille?" Cassie asked gently and Marie-Cecille nodded. Cassie began introducing herself again but Dominique cut her off.

"She doesn't speak much English. Hardly any at all."

Cassie frowned, looked taken aback for a moment. There was a casefile for Marie-Cecille. I knew that much. There was always a casefile for any family being investigated by OCFS. I wondered what information it included. If it said things like whether or not the parents spoke English. How would they know? "What language does she speak?" Cassie asked.

"French and Haitian Creole," Dominique replied. "I can translate if you need."

My mother always told me that in court, a certified translator was required for anyone who didn't speak English. Only the certified translator was allowed to speak for them because they were impartial. They wouldn't try to mislead the jury or the judge. That was the only way it would be fair. If Marie-Cecille's situation was anything like Lupita's though, I knew it was already unfair.

"If you could, please," Cassie said to Dominique. The majority of the conversation that followed was in Haitian Creole, sprinkled with bits of French that I understood. I was as reliant on Dominique's translations as Cassie was.

Marie-Cecille let us into the apartment after a few minutes. I saw her point to the camera and Cassie explained to Dominique that we were there to document what happened. Dominique eyed us suspiciously but Josh reassured her that her face would be blurred, the pitch of her voice would be changed, and that nobody would recognize her unless she wanted to be recognized.

The apartment was bare and cold. There was no Virgin Mary in the corner, softly illuminated by a tealight. Just a threadbare couch pushed up against the radiator, white plaster walls with cracks in them, a bare light bulb swinging from the yellowed ceiling. I heard a baby wailing from somewhere towards the back of the apartment and Marie-Cecille rushed off to comfort her.

Cassie turned to Dominique while Marie-Cecille was gone. "Is the baby left here alone?"

"Not alone," Dominique shook her head. "I check in on her when I'm off work. Otherwise, Marie-Cecille or one of the other girls downstairs will run up and check on her every hour or so. And if she needs anything, they just go downstairs and get Marie-Cecille and she takes care of it."

"But in between those hourly check-ins, the baby's alone?" Cassie clarified. Even though the answer was already clear. Even though Dominique didn't want to say it and Cassie and I and everyone else in the room didn't want to hear it.

"I guess," Dominique said. "But Marie-Cecille is right downstairs if anything happens."

"And how do you or the other women in the salon get inside the apartment?" Cassie asked. "Do you have a key?"

"Marie-Cecille leaves it unlocked," Dominique replied. Cassie made a note and I knew what it would say. The door to the street was unlocked. The door to the apartment was unlocked. Marie-Cecille's coworkers could get in. But so could anyone else.

I thought of all the times Ava had been left alone in our apartment building growing up. Especially when her parents were fighting, and even more so when the divorce proceedings began. She wasn't a baby, but she wasn't exactly old enough to take care of herself either. My parents would check in on her or bring her to our place for the afternoon. No one ever called OCFS on the Morgensterns. Even though Ava shouldn't have been left by herself. Even though they could have afforded a babysitter when Marie-Cecille probably couldn't.

Marie-Cecille returned with the baby cradled in her arms. The baby's name was Lindy, she said. I peaked around Josh to see her. She was beautiful. Chubby with baby fat, her head covered in dark curls and her eyes bright and alert.

Through Dominique, Cassie asked if Marie-Cecille was in contact with her baby's father. She was not. She asked if Marie-Cecille had any family nearby. She did not. They were all in Haiti. Cassie asked if she could go around the apartment to take photos. She said she'd also need to take a look at Lindy more closely. Marie-Cecille said the baby was fussy with strangers, but Cassie said she had no choice.

I followed Cassie and Josh around the apartment. Josh caught everything on film while Cassie took photos of different things. A window stuck open in the only bedroom, letting in the cold. Stains on the baby's crib. An empty bottle of formula that looked to have been sitting for days. The electrical outlets lacking faceplates, just waiting for tiny fingers to prod them. Cassie let out a sigh and for a moment, we locked eyes. She looked helpless. Sad. My heart skipped a beat. Something told me that this wouldn't end as well as Lupita's case had.

Back out in the living room, Cassie asked for permission to check Lindy over. Marie-Cecille was reluctant, but Dominique said something in a warning tone to her and she eventually handed the baby over to Cassie. Just as she'd promised, Lindy began to wail the second her mother handed her over. I wondered if she did this with Dominique or the other women in the salon. Or did she only do this when a stranger held her.

"You're going to have to cut the cameras," Cassie said to Josh and Nick. Josh nodded and turned the camera off. He handed his to me to stow back in the case. He told Nick to be ready to roll again, but maybe he knew where this was headed. Maybe he didn't want to film it himself.

Cassie sat gently on the couch and laid Lindy in her lap. I watched her unbutton the baby's discolored onesie and carefully inspect her skin. Looking for bruises, I supposed, though I couldn't picture Marie-Cecille hurting a fly, let alone her own child. Cassie then undid the baby's diaper and gasped.

I wasn't sure if I should look. This wasn't my child, wasn't my job. And Marie-Cecille was probably humiliated enough with all these strangers in her apartment, gawking at her baby, judging the way she lived. So I didn't look, though I know Josh did. I hid behind him instead.

Cassie turned to Dominique. "How long has this diaper rash been here?" she asked. And Dominique dutifully turned to Marie-Cecille and repeated the question.

"Weeks," was the answer.

"Is Marie-Cecille aware of how serious it is?" Cassie asked. "Lindy is bleeding. A bit of diaper rash happens from time-to-time but it shouldn't be bleeding like this."

Dominique didn't have to translate. Marie-Cecille began to sob and I peered around Josh to see her, careful not to look at the half-naked baby. The thought of seeing her bleed there made me nauseous. Marie-Cecille had collapsed to her knees and was rocking back and forth, her cries coming in low moans of pain. She repeated the same things over and over.

"She's saying she's sorry. She's saying she didn't mean to," Dominique said. Her mouth was set in a grim line and the wrinkles around her mouth deepened.

Cassie nodded as she refastened Lindy's diaper. The baby was wailing, kicking, and screaming now and the cacophony of her cries and her mother's was just too much. I felt dizzy. I felt like I was going to throw up. So I did what I always do when I feel that way. I ran. I put the camera case down on the floor and bolted from the apartment.

I had to take a walk. I had to clear my head. I made my way briskly down the block, letting the cold and the smell of diesel from an idling truck wash over me. I thought of Lindy wailing in the apartment alongside her mother. I thought of Lupita's twins. I thought of Auggie. I was young when he was born, but I remembered the one time he had a diaper rash because my dad had accidentally let him sit in his dirty diaper for a little too long. I remembered my dad's reaction. The regret. The profuse apologies. He didn't let Auggie leave his arms all afternoon after that, spoon-fed him dinner in his lap. But my dad stayed home in the summers. School was out and he took care of us while Mom was at work. I knew Marie-Cecille didn't have that luxury.

And I also knew that in all likelihood, every parent - every person's - worst fear around OCFS was probably going to be realized in this case. Cassie was probably going to have to take the baby.

I was right. When I came back to the apartment building, an NYPD car was pulled up outside. Dominique and Cassie were standing on the sidewalk outside. I could hear Marie-Cecille's keening from the doorway.

"She didn't mean to do harm," Dominique was telling Cassie.

"I know," Cassie said and I could see tears welling in her eyes. "I know. And I really, really want to help her. But right now, the law says I have to take her. And then we'll work with her to get Lindy back."

Josh came down a few minutes later, along with Nick and a police officer. Marie-Cecille brought up the rear, clutching a bag in one hand and cradling Lindy against her chest.

"I'm so sorry," Cassie said as Marie-Cecille approached, and Dominique didn't bother to translate.

I could see the mother's chest heaving with her sobs. She dropped the bag to the sidewalk and I could see some diapers and a teddy bear inside. Marie-Cecille kept planting kisses to her baby's face, her forehead, holding her tighter and more desperately. All the while, Lindy cried like she knew what was about to happen. I had never seen anyone act this way. Not my mother when she discovered Auggie was being bullied. Not Lucas when he learned that I was being bullied. Not Maya when she thought she was going to lose her job. This wasn't anger. This wasn't sadness. This was pain. And it felt like I'd been stabbed through the chest.

It felt like an eternity before Marie-Cecille finally handed her baby over to Cassie, and by now Cassie's face was streaked with tears. She took Lindy gently, held her close to her as if she might shatter in a million pieces. "I'm so sorry," Cassie said over and over. To Marie-Cecille. To Lindy. To me.

She looked to Dominique. There was desperation in her eyes. Or maybe guilt. Probably both. "Please… Tell Marie-Cecille that her court date will be very soon. That we're going to make sure Lindy is taken care of until she can get her back. Please tell her."

And Dominique turned to her neighbor and draped an arm around her and squeezed. And she told her, which only made Marie-Cecille cry harder.

"I'm sorry," I said to Dominique. To Marie-Cecille. My voice didn't sound like my own. It was hollow and far away. It's one thing to lose someone you love. When that happens, you let go. It's a part of life. I let go of Chelsea because her time was up. She was gone. But to have someone you love taken from you? To know they're out there somewhere, in the same city even, so close but you can't touch them? It was a pain I couldn't imagine.

"She wasn't the first mother to lose a kid in this neighborhood, and she won't be the last," Dominique said tiredly.

Cassie gently strapped Lindy into a carseat in the Caravan. She put the teddy bear in the seat with her. And then she slid the door shut and turned to us. "Are you coming with me?"

I looked to Josh. His eyes were dry, which I expected. Uncle Josh wasn't a cryer. He felt, but he didn't cry. But he did sound choked-up when he spoke. "We'll meet you at your office," he said softly. Slowly.

Cassie nodded and climbed into the van. The police officer left. The whole street was silent. The van started up and as Cassie drove away, Marie-Cecille began to wail again. She tried to run after the van. She would have if Dominique hadn't held her back and guided her back into the building, letting the door shut behind them without another word to us.

I couldn't help but wonder how things might have played out differently. If Dominique had checked in on the baby more often. If Marie-Cecille could afford a consistent babysitter. If children like Ava Morgenstern had also had OCFS called on them. I remembered the butterfly effect that Farkle had told me about. One act leads to another. One good deed begets many more. We took care of Ava, and in return she grew up with her family, broken as it was.

Ava and her mother had moved away a long time ago, shortly after the divorce was finalized. Auggie told me that she'd ended up in Phoenix, that they still kept in contact from time-to-time and that she was doing well. She probably would never become Ava Morgenstern-Matthews, despite all of her and Auggie's plans as kids. But at least she was still with her mother. Marie-Cecille and Lindy didn't have that. They wouldn't have that for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever.

"Are you alright?" I asked Josh.

He heaved a sigh. "I should be asking you that," he said instead of answering.

"I will be, I guess," I said. It was the most honest answer I could muster.

"You don't have to come to Cassie's office," he said. "I know it was a heavy day. I'll drive you back to your apartment if you want."

"Thanks, Uncle Josh," I said. "But I think I'm going to take the subway back." I needed some time to think.

He nodded. "We're going to wrap filming for the rest of the week," he told me. "There's a couple of things in Philly that I need to take care of. We'll start up again Monday."

My mood had plummeted by the time I got back to my apartment, and I still had to meet Charlie Gardner. I considered backing out again, but decided I should go to meet him. So I put on some makeup, changed outfits, and walked the six blocks to Starbucks. I was early by ten minutes, so I ordered a macchiato and took a seat by the window.

Charlie arrived three minutes late, in a gray peacoat bundled up to his neck. California in November was probably much warmer than New York, and it was clear he'd forgotten just how cold it would be back home. He spotted me, went to the counter and ordered a tea, and then sat down across from me.

"Hi, Riley," he said. He was stiff. The smile on his face was too tight.

"Hi, Charlie," I said softly. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes.

"Thanks. For meeting with me," he said, as if this were some sort of business deal. It only made the whole thing more awkward.

"Of course," I said. "I think we were overdue for a talk."

It was a short conversation when we'd broken up in Bryant Park five years ago. We both knew what was coming, I guess. We sat down on a bench. He rested his arm over the back, around my shoulder like we'd done so many times before. I turned to him and told him that I didn't think it was working. He hadn't seemed taken aback by it, but then again we'd barely spoken for weeks leading up to that moment. He had to have known this was coming. We talked about how the distance was too great, how we were better off separate. We said we'd stay friends. We hugged and apologized for our shortcomings. And then we went our separate ways. But I didn't say everything I felt at the time, and in hindsight I doubt he did either.

"I'm sorry for how things went down at the coffee shop last time," he said. "I know it was pretty awkward. For both of us."

"No kidding," I managed a slight smile.

"When Maya suggested getting together, I was a bit surprised. I mean, we still talk from time-to-time but not enough to really get coffee."

"Yeah, Maya has a way of springing things on you," I admitted. I tamped down whatever feelings of anger lingered inside of me. I'd already forgiven Maya.

"But it did get me thinking," Charlie continued. "About the things I still wanted to say, but never got the chance. So I thought… well maybe we could do that now."

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked, spinning my cup a few times.

"Well, the other day. When we saw each other for the first time in a while… You made it seem like the breakup was my fault," Charlie said softly. He twisted the sleeve of the cup around and around. It was a nervous habit of his, one that he'd had since we first dated.

I let out a sigh. I had thought it was his fault. Up until recently, I'd have told anyone it was his fault. He had been the one to go to California. He'd been the one to gradually stop returning texts, to start missing calls. But I was bitter then. And maybe a little bit now, but mostly I was tired. Tired of running. Tired of holding onto some piece of Charlie Gardner. Tired of not letting go.

And truthfully, it was my fault, too. It was my fault from the beginning. Because as much as I had convinced myself that I liked Charlie - that I loved Charlie - I knew all along that he was a crutch. A substitute. Lucas and I hadn't worked out, and that was fine. But after letting Lucas go, I needed a replacement. And Charlie had liked me since middle school. So he seemed like the logical choice, as much as Maya and Farkle and Zay and Smackle and even Lucas tried to talk me out of it. I shouldn't have gone back to Charlie. I thought I could make it work. And now here we were.

"It's not," I finally said. "I know I made it seem that way, and I'm sorry."

"But why did you think it was my fault?" he pressed. I looked up. Charlie always had a bit of a puppy dog look to him. A certain pleading in his eyes that had been endearing when we were teenagers. It filled me with guilt now.

"I think I just...I wanted someone to blame, Charlie." I realized I had been using him when we first started dating, and I had continued to use him until now. "I'm sorry. For everything. For blaming you."

"I'm sorry for letting you down," Charlie finally said. We were quiet for a while, then he spoke again. "You know what sucks the most?" he asked. I shook my head. "I feel like we could've been friends, Riley. If things hadn't worked out the way they did. I felt like I lost a friend when we broke up."

"Yeah," I could barely speak above a whisper. "It sucks."

"Have you seen anyone since we broke up?" Charlie asked.

I was startled. And at first I was angry because exes don't have a right to ask about who you're seeing now. But there was no jealousy in his voice or on his face. No bitterness. Just curiosity. And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wondered the same about him. Had he been able to move on?

"Not really," I said. "You?"

"Not really," he repeated my answer.

I knew for certain then, as I looked at Charlie Gardner, that five years was too long. He had changed in five years, and so had I, and who we'd become as individuals was no longer compatible. In any sense. I was glad I had come to meet him, but there was something final about this meeting.

"You know we probably won't be friends when we leave here, right?" I asked, scrutinizing the lid of my coffee cup.

"I know," Charlie sighed.

"But I'll always be hoping for the best for you, Charlie," I added after a moment.

"Me too, Riley."

I drained the last bit of my coffee and threw it in the garbage. We said a brief goodbye, and then I walked out without looking back.