“Sometimes.” She resumed her circuit, striking out at unseen enemies.

“How's school?” I asked Chondra.

She shook her head and looked away.

“We didn't start yet,” said Tiffani.

“How come?”

“Gramma said we didn't have to.”

“Do you miss seeing your friends?”

Hesitation. “Maybe.”

“Can I talk to Gramma about that?”

She looked at Chondra. The older girl was peeling the paper wrapper off a crayon.

Tiffani nodded. Then: “Don't do that. They're his.”

“It's okay,” I said.

“You shouldn't destroy other people's stuff.”

“True,” I said. “But some things are meant to be used up. Like crayons. And these crayons are here for you.”

“Who bought them?” said Tiffani.

“I did.”

“Destroying's Satan's work,” said Tiffani, spreading her arms and rotating them in wide circles.

I said, “Did you hear that in church?”

She didn't seem to hear. Punched the air. “He laid down with Satan.”

“Who?”

“Wallace.”

Chondra's mouth dropped open. “Stop,” she said, very softly.

Tiffani came over and dropped her arm over her sister's shoulder. “It's okay. He's not our dad anymore, remember? Satan turned him into a bad spirit and he got all his sins wrapped up like one. Like a big burrito.”

Chondra turned away from her.

“Come on,” said Tiffani, rubbing her sister's back. “Don't worry.”

“Wrapped up?” I said.

“Like one,” she explained to me. “The Lord counts up all your good deeds and your sins and wraps them up. So when you die, He can look right away and know if you go up or down. He's going down. When he gets there, the angels'll look at the package and know all he done. And then he'll burn.”

She shrugged. “That's the truth.”

Chondra's eyes pooled with tears. She tried to remove Tiffani's arm from her shoulder, but the younger girl held fast.

“It's okay,” said Tiffani. “You got to talk about the truth.”

“Stop,” said Chondra.

“It's okay,” Tiffani insisted. “You got to talk to him.” She looked at me. “So he'll write a good book for the judge and he'll never get out.”

Chondra looked at me.

I said, “Actually, what I write won't change how much time he spends in jail.”

“Maybe,” insisted Tiffani. “If your book tells the judge how evil he is, then maybe he could put him in longer.”

“Was he ever evil to you?”

No answer.

Chondra shook her head.

Tiffani said, “He hit us.”

“A lot?”

“Sometimes.”

“With his hand or something else?”

“His hand.”

“Never a stick or a belt or something else?”

Another headshake from Chondra. Tiffani's was slower, reluctant.

“Not a lot, but sometimes,” I said.

“When we were bad.”

“Bad?”

“Making a mess—going near his bike—he hit Mom more. Right?” Prodding Chondra. “He did.”

Chondra gave a tiny nod, grabbed the crayon, and started peeling again. Tiffani watched but didn't stop her.