A/N: You've all been patient, and here it is: the first Trina-centric chapter. Enjoy. (Also, a quick question: if I were to start an account over at FictionPress, would anyone be interested in reading my non-fan fiction?)

Los Angeles, CA

One day earlier

The alarm clock buzzed at 6:00 and the birds were singing loudly outside the bedroom window, but Trina and Adam didn't need to be awakened; they hadn't slept all night. For hours they had stared at the ceiling, breaking the silence occasionally to talk in hushed tones so that Sammy wouldn't hear. Worry ate away at their stomachs and forced their eyes open whenever they began to doze off.

Finally, reluctantly, they arose, their stiff joints crackling. Trina poured herself a cup of coffee, then left it undrunk on the kitchen counter. Adam pulled on his overalls and took the keys to the pickup off the wall hook.

"Don't you want something to eat first?"

"Not hungry," he said quietly.

"Me neither."

He turned to her, and the concern was evident even in his bleary and baggy eyes. "Are you sure you don't want me to-"

"How many times do we have to go over this? You have to go to work. If you miss any more days, your boss is going to jump down your throat." Her tone softened. "And I can do this by myself. I swear I can."

He smiled gently. "I don't doubt that for a second. I just…I want to be there."

She went to him and hugged him tightly. "I know. I promise, we won't make any binding decisions today. If something has to be done, we'll do it as a family."

He leaned down to kiss her forehead, then gently extricated himself from her embrace. "I have to run. What time does the sitter get here?"

"Eight-thirty. The conference is at nine. I should have plenty of time. The only question is…what do I wear?"

He blinked. "Are you really worried about that?"

"Well, what do you expect? I've never done this before." For all her anxiety, she still couldn't stifle a chuckle at his bemused expression. "Honey, I know I've changed a lot since we first met, but some things stay the same. I was born a fashionista, and I'll die a fashionista."

"I have no doubt of that." A last quick kiss, and he turned to call up the stairs: "Bye, Sammy!"

The dim sound floated down of feet pounding the wall. "Go away!" The small voice screamed. "I hate you, Daddy!"

"Oh, God. I'll go check on him." Trina hurried off without even glancing back. He could just catch snatches of her voice from their son's bedroom: "Sammy, honey, you need to stop doing that. Remember, you promised Mommy you wouldn't."

The banging grew louder, and then Trina's tearful voice: "Sammy, please…"

Adam stood in the open doorway, keys dangling from his fingers, unable to bring himself to leave the house. It's just a phase. It has to be. We're getting all worked up over nothing.

Aren't we?

/

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, went Trina's stiletto heels on the immaculately polished school floor. She adjusted her blazer a little to the left, to the right; smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt, then another, then another – anything to delay the inevitable.

Los Angeles these days, like every major American city, suffered from periodic electricity shortages and rolling blackouts, so, as a power-saving measure, the overhead lights were dimmed and the air conditioning at its lowest possible level, making Trina perspire uncomfortably. Around her on the walls plasma panels dully flickered, displaying constantly changing high-definition reproductions of students' drawings and finger paintings. I miss the days when they just pinned sheets of paper onto corkboard, she thought.

Without even realizing it, she began to flick her eyes from side to side as she walked, hoping that something, anything, of Sammy's would materialize on the screens. There was "Caitlin's Gorilla" and "Tobias in a Rocketship" and "Madison and Her Family Have a Picnic"…but what about my child, dammit?

Then she saw it – almost at ceiling level, virtually impossible to spot if you weren't looking for it (which was obviously the school's intention). If nothing else, it was incredibly well-drawn; Sammy had inherited his father's gift with his hands. But the image…she and Adam were lying in the grass of their front yard with splashes of red all around them and tombstones at their heads. Flames were spurting from the doors and windows of their home.

And Sammy, in the center of it all, was dancing.

Oh, sweet merciful God.

She had reached his classroom – No. 103, Miss Cardinale. Tentatively, she knocked and was greeted by a brisk and officious "Enter, please."

The woman was young – no more than forty – but her severely cut khaki clothes, prematurely whitening hair and narrow face made her look much older. She took Trina's hand in a crushingly strong handshake and studied her with keen hazel eyes.

"Mrs. Winter, I presume."

Tell a joke. Break the ice. Get on her good side. "Shouldn't that be Dr. Livingston?" She forced a broad grin and a chuckle, but the teacher responded, with what Trina could have sworn was a sneer, "I don't think humor is the order of the day, do you? Please have a seat."

Trina drew a chair up to the desk with shaking hands. Miss Cardinale pursued her lips and ran a finger down her PearPad – drab brown, like her outfit – studying something; Sammy's file, Trina guessed. So much time passed before she next spoke that Trina honestly wondered whether she had forgotten that there was someone else in the room.

"Mrs. Winter, I'm going to lay all the cards on the table, so to speak. Your son is violent and uncontrollable. He shows marked antisocial tendencies, and he has no respect for authority whatsoever."

"But…how can you possibly know that for sure? He's four years old, for God's sake. All kids his age are unruly sometimes."

"Did you see his picture?"

"I…" Trina's head sank. "Yes." Please, God, take me away from here before I have to hear any more.

"That was not an isolated incident." She looked back to her PearPad. "Friday, 22 June: subject struck fellow student across face when she refused to share her toys. Monday, 25 June: subject…"

"Don't you dare call my son a subject!" Trina cried. "His name is Samuel!"

She might as well have been speaking Swahili for all that Miss Cardinale acknowledged her. "Subject informed P.E. teacher that if he had to do more jumping jacks he would 'jab a pencil in her eye'. Tuesday, 26 June: subject stole lunches of three fellow students, then when questioned about it, called assistant principal a…well, let's just say a vulgar epithet that should not be in any four-year-old's vocabulary," and she gave Trina a meaningful look, "Or any adult's, either, if I do say so myself. Wednesday, 27 June: subject smashed…"

Trina was consumed by a feeling she had not had since six long years ago, when she was told Adam had left the hospital: This is not real. I deny this. I do not accept that this is happening. It took all her strength not to leave her chair and curl up into a fetal position.

"Mrs. Winter, are you listening to me? Your son is not prepared to enter kindergarten in the fall. Not only is he far too immature, but if this behavior continues – and I see no indications that it won't – he may pose a genuine risk of injury to others. I'm removing him from the summer program, and I strongly recommend that you have him evaluated by a competent child psychologist. Is he behaving in this fashion at home?"

Trina stared at the floor.

"I see." The teacher looked at her as if she were a dead cockroach. "Well, as I say, drastic action must be taken. Might I suggest a parenting class for you and your husband? It could go far to correcting any…shortcomings…on your end."

Trina's head shot up; her eyes blazed with fury. "How dare you! How dare you accuse us of being unfit parents!"

"I speak from experience, Mrs. Winter. Poor parenting often leads to children 'acting out'. And consider the alternative: if none of this is your fault, then, well, it would seem you've given birth to a little sociopath."

Don't hit her. Don't hit her.

"Is there any history of mental illness in your or your husband's family?"

"Yes," Trina muttered through tightly clenched teeth.

"Hmph. Well, there you are. All in the genes, then."

You can't hit her. If you do you'll go to jail, and Sammy needs you.

"With all due respect, Miss Cardinale," she said in tones of ice, "I think we're done here."

"You'll take my recommendations under advisement, I trust?"

But Trina was already out the door.

"Madison and Her Family Have a Picnic" was back on display in the hallway. Three smiling stick figures in bright yellow and blue crayon: mommy; daddy; little girl between them, holding their hands.

Trina stared at it for a moment.

Then she sank down, back against the wall, and began to sob.