A friend of my youngest son's came to our door tonight, about an hour ago. He was fleeing his aunt and uncle's house; his father and mother are divorcing, and he was staying with his aunt and uncle but had words with his uncle, who's diabetic. Severely. He felt he couldn't stay there, so he packed up his stuff and a friend brought him to us.

This is a boy - almost a man - who has no home to go to, and he came to one of his best friend's houses, that he'd never been to before. We welcomed him with open arms and a wary disposition. He is grateful for the place to stay. In this case, it's his father who's bipolar but won't admit it. His aunt and uncle? A different proposition.

My youngest son is in a type of agony. How do you make a comrade feel better, when the hurt runs so deep?

My heart hurts. I've been working on the play about the other episode in our lives when someone mentally ill seemingly took us over. This boy - almost a man - is not mentally ill, but he's reeling from those who are.

My oldest son is reeling a bit, too. Memories flood us of earlier times.

We can give this young man shelter, food, warmth, substitute love, for a couple of weeks. And then what happens to him?

My heart hurts.

I feel another play coming on. Maybe I will be known as that woman who wrote plays about disturbed or displaced young people.

Maybe.