ABSTRACT
September was in an awful state once again. I had seen her now for over a year, and the 15-year-old had never looked worse. She was just a week out of a 9-month stay at a distant psychiatric facility. I had pulled every string in the book to arrange a placement with Connie Dixon, a trusted therapeutic foster parent after child protective services (CPS)1 couldn’t or wouldn’t pursue her release. Now, on a cold January evening, September sat in my office, plumped up on lithium, angry and sullen and ready to give up again.
