“Isn’t anybody else coming?” said Graff, frowning at Austin, Macey, Lindsay and Grace. “We had six more signed up and a parent.”

“It’s too pretty out,” said Grace. “The others are skipping.”

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shimmering on the first unfurling leaves, and the green fringe of new spring smelled fresh and exciting.

The church van held fifteen, and the four kids crowded together to talk while Graff drove. Behind them were gallons of paint and a cardboard box of brushes, masking tape, rollers, pans, rags and extra old T-shirts. A donor had sent along three beanbag chairs that were still serviceable and not leaking any of their little white pellets. Macey was glad they were bringing gifts. She liked thinking of children curled up in those soft old beanbags.

Under her feet was an enormous restaurant-size can that had once held some amazing amount of peaches. A kindergarten teacher had been saving old crayons and sent them along for the children at Good Shepherd.

Macey’s heart sank. These crayons were short, stubby ruins. Nobody ever wanted a broken old crayon with the paper wrapping gone. Everybody always wanted new crayons. Everybody always wanted a whole box of new crayons.

When they finally reached the right turnpike exit, Lindsay said, “We’re getting off here? This is where my mother always says, ‘We better not break down now, or we’ll be dead.’ ”

They laughed.

The neighborhood off the exit ramp was just buildings, most of them not occupied. It was a business thoroughfare without businesses. This was a city without a single department store. Nobody would shop here, because they couldn’t park. It was too dangerous.

Macey looked down each intersection at old brick row houses, which must have been romantic once; as if Mary Poppins had wheeled a perambulator on that sidewalk and scolded a little girl in shiny patent leather shoes under a cherry tree. Now, sections of brick had fallen away, windows had been broken, plywood had been nailed over some of the doors. Dogs barked behind high grilles that enclosed tiny bare dirt yards.

Macey shuddered. Imagine growing up here.

Several blocks after that was a park. Or what had been a park. The wooden seats had been torn away from the metal frames of the benches, so there was nothing to sit on. A bronze statue of a horse and rider was covered with graffiti. The flower beds were littered with old clothes. A minute later it clicked through for Macey that the old clothes were occupied by sleeping people.

The church parking lot was surrounded by high chain-link, and rolls of razor wire glittered on top of that. The minister was waiting for them, and when the van had driven in, he closed the gates and padlocked them.