I said, “Do you like to draw, Chondra?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, maybe we'll find something you like in the playroom.”

She shrugged and looked down at the carpet.

Tiffani was fingering the frame of the picture. A George Bellows boxing print. I'd bought it, impulsively, in the company of a woman I no longer saw.

“Like the drawing?” I said.

She turned around and nodded, all cheekbones and nose and chin. Her mouth was very narrow and crowded with big, misaligned teeth that forced it open and made her look perpetually confused. Her hair was dishwater, cut institutionally short, the bangs hacked crookedly. Some kind of food stain specked her upper lip. Her nails were dirty, her eyes an unremarkable brown. Then she smiled and the look of confusion vanished. At that moment she could have modeled, sold anything.

“Yeah, it's cool.”

“What do you especially like about it?”

“The fighting.”

“The fighting?”

“Yeah,” she said, punching air. “Action. Like WWA.”

“WWA,” I said. “World Wrestling?”

She pantomimed an uppercut. “Pow poom.” Then she looked at her sister and scowled, as if expecting support.

Chondra didn't move.

“Pow poom,” said Tiffani, advancing toward her. “Welcome to WWA fighting, I'm Crusher Creeper and this is the Red Viper in a grudge match of the century. Ding!” Bell-pull pantomime.

She laughed, nervously. Chondra chewed her lip and tried to smile.

“Aar,” said Tiffani, coming closer. She pulled the imaginary cord again. “Ding. Pow poom.” Hooking her hands, she lurched forward with Frankenstein-monster unsteadiness. “Die, Viper! Aaar!”

She grabbed Chondra and began tickling her arms. The older girl giggled and tickled back, clumsily. Tiffani broke free and began circling, punching air. Chondra started chewing her lip, again.

I said, “C'mon, guys,” and took them to the library. Chondra sat immediately at the play table. Tiffani paced and shadowboxed, hugging the periphery of the room like a toy on a track, muttering and jabbing.

Chondra watched her, then plucked a sheet of paper off the top of a stack and picked up a crayon. I waited for her to draw, but she put the crayon down and watched her sister.

“Do you guys watch wrestling at home?” I said.

“Roddy does,” said Tiffani, without breaking step.

“Roddy's your grandmother's husband?”

Nod. Jab. “He's not our grampa. He's Mexican.”

“He likes wrestling?”

“Uh-huh. Pow poom.”

I turned to Chondra. She hadn't moved. “Do you watch wrestling on TV, too?”

Shake of the head.

“She likes Surfriders,” said Tiffani. “I do, too, sometimes. And Millionaire's Row.”

Chondra bit her lip.

“Millionaire's Row,” I said. “Is that the one where rich people have all sorts of problems?”

“They die,” said Tiffani. “Sometimes. It's really for real.” She put her arms down and stopped circling. Coming over to us, she said, “They die because money and materials are the roots of sins and when you lay down with Satan, your rest is never peaceful.”

“Do the rich people on Millionaire's Row lay down with Satan?”