“We don’t watch that channel,” said Papa firmly. “Connecticut news isn’t news. They never cover anything but crime. Or nonsense, like who won the lottery and whether there’s a fun time to be had visiting historic houses in Wethersfield.”

“If you really want news, Austin,” said Nana, “and I don’t, because it’s dinnertime and why get upset about things you can’t change, at least put on a New York station, where they’ll have real news.”

Austin glanced down at the remote. The arrangement of buttons was different from his own remotes.

“See?” said Papa irritably. “I’m right. Some kid has been shot and killed and we’re going to have to look at it. I hate these shootings. I read the other day it’s safer in Israel than New Haven.”

Austin clicked down a channel.

“Austin, go back!” said Macey. She hit his arm.

He stared at her.

She was not looking at him. She was leaning way forward over the counter, staring at the wide TV screen. “Go back, Austin!”

On the screen was a long-distance silhouette of a large church in a city block. It was beautiful: a stone house of God, with a broad-shouldered spire.

Like Austin, thought Macey. The church is shaped like Austin.

From close up, the church was under siege. The neighborhood was nothing but chain-link and rolls of razor wire; boards over windows; splintered steps and the fat slick assault of graffiti; broken bottles and—

And a body on the sidewalk.

It had not been covered.

It was splayed over cement, and the cement itself was broken, with weeds growing through, and the wrappings of fast food were blowing gently against the corpse. Groups of people stood staring at it. They did not seem surprised.

It was just a pile of cloth, like the homeless drunks who had been lying in the flower beds, and it was equally difficult to imagine that a person was inside the cloth. It seemed too limp, too flat, to have been alive.

The camera moved in for a close-up of blood, but there wasn’t much.

“Probably some eighteen-year-old selling drugs,” said Papa. “Austin, change the channel. We don’t watch crime.”

But the story was over.

Macey could not breathe. She was pawing Austin’s arm for the remote. She snatched it from him, clicked it, thrust it forward and snapped it in the air to get the picture back.

“Macey, the segment’s over,” said Grace. “You can’t get it back. There’s nothing wrong with the TV.”

Macey dropped the remote on the counter, but it hit the rim and fell to the floor, and she whispered, “Give me the phone,” and Aus said, “It’s right here, Mace, here’s the phone, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you recognize the church?”

“No.”