outing to Boston to run around on the Boston Common and see the city.”“You'd never get permission to take them out in a car by yourself. A parent or socialworker would have to drive. They'll tell you that the DSS is responsible for those kids 24hours a day. The idea of letting five kids -- sorry, Billy, they consider you a kid, too -- gooff in a car by themselves would be unthinkable.”“So, basically, the five of us can't go to Boston together.”“Billy, at DSS nothing is simple. Why don't you call your brothers and sisters?”“I don't want to call them up out of the blue. It's too cold and too casual for something so big. I don't want disembodied voices. I want to see their eyes and I want them to seemine. And, to be honest, I don't want to give them a chance to say no. Unloved kids tendto push people away, you know.”“Who's the licensed social worker here?”***In between his flourishing social life, studies, revising his book, working with MissCasey doing promotion -- and trying to keep Vera from constantly popping into histhoughts-- Billy went on excursions to scope out his blood brothers and sisters. It had been so long since he had seen them that he was not sure he would even recognize them.To help him, he carried copies of old photographs from their files, again thanks to MissCasey's DSS contacts. (Their mother's dream home, though a department store of furnishings, had been bare of photographs of her five children.)David Weatherall, a brand new graduate of Fairfield University and working at hisfather's company, drove. They scoped out foster homes and schools, cruisedneighborhoods, conducted surveillance -- and managed to get glimpses of all four siblings.They saw ten-year-old Vincent coming out of school. Instead of getting on the school buswith the other kids, Vincent walked off alone. They tailed him as he walked home, adistance of about three miles.Billy said, “His clothes don't fit. Why is he walking all that way? Why is he by himself?”They spotted nine-year-old Raymond in a playground not far from his foster home,tossing a football with a couple of other kids. They sat in the car and watched him untilthe other kids rode off on their bikes and Raymond left, walking.Billy said, “No bike. Look what he's wearing -- out of a ragbag.”Billy spotted fourteen-year-old Mary on the front steps of her foster home, sitting alone,flipping through a magazine. It was a fleeting glimpse because when they turned aroundfor another look, she was gone.“That was definitely her,” Billy said, holding up her picture. “Did you see her face? She'ssad.”Twelve-year-old Rebecca was the last to be spotted, in the back yard of her foster homehanging out laundry. “Look at her,” Billy said, “beaten down like some kind of whippeddog. Let's get out of here.”“You're going to put your suit back on,” David Weatherall said.