But Macey could dwell on nothing else, and she needed to be at Good Shepherd, among people who were also dwelling on the life and death of Venita. She needed to know what they had to say; what Reverend Warren thought the Lord had to say; what Venita’s grandmother was saying, and how she was enduring this terrible thing.

“You do not need to,” said her father. “It is a dangerous, dangerous place. You nearly died in a fire, and she did die in a fire of gunshots. You may not go.”

Macey forced herself to calm down. “She lived there, Daddy.”

“And I’m sorry. It’s a terrible world. And you’re not going into it.”

“I want to go. I want to hear what Reverend Warren says. I want to meet her grandmother and her little brothers.”

“Nonsense. You’d be the only white person there.”

“It isn’t nonsense! She’s dead. That’s not nonsense. And you said yesterday morning color isn’t first place, so—so what if I’m the only white person there?”

Venita had been burned after all. The city and the school and the poverty had burned her from birth. Gangs had finished the job.

“I have to do something!” said Macey. “You don’t understand. She meant something to me.”

“And that’s fine,” said her mother with teeth-gritted patience. Mom didn’t want to miss her train. “You’ve always been able to make friends easily. But there is nothing you can do.”

“There has to be!”

“Mace, honey,” said her father, “you took a little excursion into hell, and it was good for you; it’s forced you to think. But you don’t bring this stuff home with you. You don’t hold yourself accountable. You are not responsible because Venita was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Daddy, her whole life seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and mine always in the right place at the right time. It isn’t fair.”

Her parents agreed that it wasn’t fair.

“I have to do something,” said Macey pleadingly. “I was there, Mom. I saw. It’s my job now.”

“What job?” said her father.

“I don’t know yet! I’m trying to think it through. But I owe Venita something.”

“Oh, stop it!” said her mother, who never raised her voice to Macey; never had to. “I am sick of this nonsense. You cannot save the world, Macey. It’s unfortunate that some people are born to bad situations, but there is nothing you can do. Now get dressed, have your orange juice and do not miss your bus.”

Everything she touched reminded Macey that Venita had no touch.

Venita could not put those long slim fingers on anything and feel texture, or heat, or cold.