Mary's three brothers, for the most part, are surprisingly gentle with her, although the youngest, Kobe, 3, doesn't take too well to this new chubby, squealing rival, and he sometimes tugs her hair when he thinks grown-ups aren't looking.

Even the birth of a fourth healthy baby isn't a bright spot for long in the life of Dawn Nicole Smith, by now nearly 23. The University of Kentucky hospital, which legally can't disclose the reason for the report, requests that a social worker check on the well-being of all of Dawn's children. Dawn says a hospital staff member caught her sleeping with Mary in her bed, which is against the rules. She also says a staff member brings up the fact that Dawn stole a prescription pad from a UK dentist two years earlier. That theft led to her being in drug court in the first place. People are always going to be looking down on her for what she did, she says.

But because of Mary's birth, Dawn gets a short reprieve from some drug court responsibilities.

Caseworker Roberta Daugherty comes to the house to put on a special patch that can detect drug use, so Dawn doesn't have to check every day to see whether she has to drive from Nicholasville to Lexington to take a random drug test. She doesn't have to go to court or to groups or meetings. She's allowed to stay home. Her life takes on a rare domestic routine.

Fayette County Drug Court program supervisor Danielle Sanders-Jackson and some of the girls in her group threw Dawn a baby shower, complete with cake and soda. They equipped her with a swing, some clothes and some toys. She laughed and smiled and briefly enjoyed being the center of attention. Now, all those presents are getting used.

Tonio, 5, goes to kindergarten half-days, catching the bus like a big boy. Frequently wild at home, hollering at the video games he loves to play, wrestling with his brothers or, in one favored pastime, sliding across the linoleum kitchen floor in his underwear, he manages to sit through a school day. He struggles with his work. Dawn thinks Tonio's teachers are too hard on him.

"They want him to be able to count to 100? What 5-year-old can count to 100?" she asks.

But she helps him in the evenings, tucking his best papers and drawings in the envelope containing her most beloved possessions, a few family photos from Wal-Mart.

The three grown-ups — Dawn; her mother, Brenda Raines, 44; and Dawn's stepfather, Larry Raines, 49 — are all working steadily, a rare financial alignment. After her time off for the baby, Dawn gets a job working at the nursing home where Brenda works. Larry works as a painter.

For once, there is a little extra money to buy things for the boys, such as bunk beds for the rented house in Jessamine County where they all live, having left the trailer behind.

After months of talking about it, Dawn goes to take a General Educational Development

pre-test to determine what she needs to study to pass — the first step to getting a better job.

She goes to an old shopping center in Lexington that has been converted into a testing center. The no-nonsense test-giver presents a firm lecture about her high standards. Dawn, dressed as usual in a white T-shirt and sweat pants, leans over the paper, pencil in hand, her fingers absently twirling a strand of hair around the inside of her ear.

She's shocked to learn that she does very well. With just a little work on fractions, she could probably pass and get the equivalent of a high school degree. In a rare burst of pride, Dawn says shyly that somebody once told her that she was smart enough to get a scholarship to go to college.

She starts studying those fractions.

A tense triangle

For whatever reason, alcohol, pills, poverty — or, Brenda's belief, the devil — the fragile family peace doesn't hold.

About three months after Mary is born, Dawn's stepfather, Larry, starts eyeing Dawn. He takes to patting her butt and blowing her kisses when his wife, Brenda, isn't looking.