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found out that a pornographer could make a CD that contained twenty thousand images of children and sell it for $25. With seven thousand twisted members in one group alone, all constantly hungry for new material, no wonder Sid had been able to build a new wing onto his house.
    It also gave me a certain satisfaction to discover that Internet pornography was a federal crime, and that the FBI was probably involved in this case. I liked the idea of Sid surrounded by agents in black suits, all bellowing questions at him the way he bellowed at his own kids.
    But Bobbi—Bobbi wouldn’t last five minutes.
    What disturbed me, as represented on the Internet trail I’d taken, was that in spite of how lucrative it could be, pornography on the Internet was not primarily based on the exchange of money.
    Pornography is for the purpose of stimulating sexual fantasies,
it said. I was about to explore more when Ben stirred beside me. I set the laptop on the bedside table and leaned over him.
    â€œIt’s okay, Pal,” I said. “You want some more juice?”
    He was still again. Sure that he was asleep, I put my hand on his back to rub it. He came up in the bed as if I’d administered a shock treatment.
    â€œWhere am I?” he cried.
    â€œYou’re in my bed. It’s—”
    â€œNo! I don’t want to be here! Don’t touch me!”
    I pulled my hand back.
    â€œI’m not touching you, Pal. I thought you were asleep.”
    â€œDon’t touch me when I’m sleeping! Don’t!”
    He scrunched his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “No touching. Do you want to go in your own bed?”
    He nodded into his knees and let me coax him out of the fetal position and across the hall to his bedroom. But the minute he was under the covers and I turned to go, he was sitting up again. His dark eyes pleaded at me.
    â€œDon’t go, Mommy,” he said. “I’m scared.”
    At the point of exasperation, I knelt down beside his bed. “I just need to feel your forehead to see if you still have a fever. It’ll just take a second.”
    He stiffened and sucked in his breath. I put my hand on his forehead. It was clammy. I was mystified as I pulled my hand away and got him to lie down again. I had been sure the fever was making his behavior even more bizarre, but this was something else.
    â€œYou promise you won’t leave?” he said. “The whole night?”
    â€œI’ll be right here. I’m just going to go get my pillow and blanket so I can sleep on your floor.”
    â€œNo! Take mine!”
    He pulled a Rugrat-dotted pillow from under his head and started to yank off his comforter.
    â€œNo, Ben,” I said. “I’m fine. You keep those.”
    He stayed up on one elbow watching me, until I curled up on the rug next to his bed. Slowly he sank back down onto the pillows. In the darkness, I could hear him whispering, “Make it stop. Please make it stop,” until he fell asleep again.
    Yes,
I thought as I pulled his covers up around his chin.
Whatever it is, please make it stop.

Four
    W HEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING , Ben was leaning over where I still lay on the floor like a mangled coat hanger.
    â€œWhat are you doing there?” His voice was still croaky from sleep, his face puffy and soft as a two-year-old’s.
    â€œYou asked me to sleep here, Pal,” I said.
    â€œNo, I didn’t.”
    â€œYeah, you did. I wouldn’t have chosen this for a bed myself, trust me.”
    â€œNo-o! I didn’t make you sleep there!”
    â€œYou didn’t ‘make’ me—you sort of begged me.”
    His head was going back and forth so fast, I was afraid he was going to slosh his brain.
    â€œNever mind,” I said. “How about some cream of wheat for breakfast?”
    â€œI hate cream of wheat!”
    Okay—so at least he was feeling better.
    But