Dr. Birnbaum parked his Mercedes. He didn't have to check the address to know which house he was supposed to visit. The front yard landscaped with split trash bags and overrun with weeds told him this was the house.

The consultation was a favor to a friend in Social Services who wanted the situation resolved. As Birnbaum approached the house, he checked his notes on the clipboard. Charlene Casey, thirty-eight, separated, mother to Marcy, eleven, was technically a hoarder--someone who couldn't bear to throw anything away.

Birnbaum had dealt with several cases before, but his friend told him to prepare for his worst case ever. Having to use all his weight on the gate to push aside the rotting trash just to gain entry to the front yard gave him fair warning.

Birnbaum's previous experience taught him to hold an aftershave-scented handkerchief to his nose to help filter out the sickly-sweet stench. He was glad to be called in early spring: he couldn't imagine the smell in high summer. No wonder the neighbors wanted Charlene out.

All in all, it didn't bode well for the interior of the house.

He rang the doorbell, and while he waited, he surveyed the neighborhood. He noted the "For Sale" signs dotted up and down the street. He didn't hold out much hope for the sellers.

He heard shuffling and put the handkerchief away. The door opened a crack. A sliver of face eyed him. 'Yes?'

"Charlene Casey?' He smiled. 'Dr. Joseph Birnbaum. We spoke on the phone.'