“That's why we left him,” she said. “He hit her all the time. And then he came after her with lust and sin in his heart and killed her—tell the judge that, you're rich, he'll listen to you!”

Chondra began crying. Tiffani patted her and said, “It's okay, we got to.”

I got a tissue box. Tiffani took it from me and wiped her sister's eyes. Chondra pressed the crayon to her lips.

“Don't eat it,” said Tiffani. “It's poison.”

Chondra let go and the crayon flew out of her hand and landed on the floor. Tiffani retrieved it and placed it neatly alongside the box.

Chondra was licking her lips. Her eyes were closed and one soft hand was fisted.

“Actually,” I said, “it's not poisonous, just wax with color in it. But it probably doesn't taste too good.”

Chondra opened her eyes. I smiled and she tried to smile, producing only a small rise in one corner of her mouth.

Tiffani said, “Well, it's not food.”

“No, it isn't.”

She paced some more. Boxed and muttered.

I said, “Let me go over what I told you last week. You're here because your father wants you to visit him in jail. My job is to find out how you feel about that, so I can tell the judge.”

“Why doesn't the judge ask us?”

“He will,” I said. “He'll be talking to you, but first he wants me to—”

“Why?”

“Because that's my job—talking to kids about their feelings. Finding out how they really—”

“We don't want to see him,” said Tiffani. “He's an insument of Satan.”

“An—”

“An insument! He laid all down with Satan and became a sinful spirit. When he dies, he's going to burn in hell, that's for sure.”

Chondra's hands flew to her face.

“Stop!” said Tiffani. She rushed over to her sister, but before she got there, Chondra stood and let out a single, deep sob. Then she ran for the door, swinging it open so hard it almost threw her off balance.

She caught it, then she was out.

Tiffani watched her go, looking tiny and helpless.

“You got to tell the truth,” she said.

I said, “Absolutely. But sometimes it's hard.”

She nodded. Now her eyes were wet.

She paced some more.

I said, “Your sister's older but it looks like you take care of her.”

She stopped, faced me, gave a defiant stare, but seemed comforted.

“You take good care of her,” I said.

Shrug.

“That must get hard sometimes.”

Her eyes flickered. She put her hands on her hips and jutted her chin.

“It's okay,” she said.

I smiled.

“She's my sister.” She stood there, knocking her hands against her legs.

I patted her shoulder.

She sniffed, then walked away.

“You got to tell the truth,” she said.

“Yes, you do.”

Punch, jab. “Pow poom . . . I wanna go home.”