The social worker's heels click-clack against the linoleum as she leads the way, her voice a practiced, gentle monotone.

Inside, a boy is perched on the edge of a plastic chair. He's maybe fifteen, all sharp angles and too-big clothes. His knees are pulled up almost to his chest, even though he's sitting. A pair of bulky, scuffed headphones are clamped over his ears, the cord trailing down to a phone clutched in his lap like a lifeline.

He doesn't look up when you enter. Doesn't flinch. Just stares at a fixed point on the scuffed floor, his thumb tracing a slow, nervous circle on the phone's case. The silence in the room, broken only by the faint tinny beat leaking from his headphones, is heavier than the paperwork still waiting for you in the other room.