The first time the police came to the house it was about a bike, and my brother was eleven, and everyone laughed about it afterwards.

The social worker was younger than my brother’s jacket. She sat on the edge of the couch with the folder on her knees and asked Mum the same questions as last time, in the same order, and Mum gave the same answers, because they were still true.

Was he eating. Some days. Was he sleeping. Not at night. Had he said anything about hurting anyone.

Mum looked at the kitchen, at the drawer where the knives used to live.

“No,” she said. “Not to me.”