Clark said, “Francesca?”

With her eyes still shut, she nodded for him to go.

“I’ll be at the café in Lerner Hall,” Clark said.

Clark slung his backpack over his right shoulder and trudged away. Francesca finally opened her eyes. When he was far enough away, Myron said, “You need to tell me the truth.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“It’s destroying you. It’s destroying your brother. I’m going to find out anyway. So let me help. We can still make this right.”

She made a scoffing noise and started crying again. Nearby students glanced over, concerned. Myron tried to smile them off, but he imagined that this looked like either an older man breaking up with a younger girl or, he hoped, a teacher delivering bad news to a student.

“I just spoke to Mr. Dixon,” Myron said.

She looked up at him, confused. “What?”

“Your fifth grade teacher.”

“I know who he is, but why . . . ?”

She stopped.

“Tell me what happened,” Myron said.

“I don’t understand. What did Mr. Dixon say?”

“He’s a good man. He didn’t want to betray any confidences.”

“What did he say?” Francesca asked again.

“Your parents were having marital difficulties,” Myron said. “You talked to him about it.”

Francesca plucked a blade of grass from the ground. There were freckles on her face. Man, Myron thought, she looked so young. He could almost see her in that classroom, the scared fifth grader, worried about her whole world falling apart.

“Francesca?”

She looked up at him.

“Your father found texts on your mother’s phone, didn’t he?”

Her face lost all color.

“Francesca?”

“Please don’t tell Clark.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know until . . .” She shook her head. “Clark will never forgive me.”

Myron shifted so that they were facing each other full on. Someone started blaring music from a dormitory window. The song started with the vocalist letting us know that once he was seven years old. In seconds, he was eleven years old.

Yeah, Myron thought, watching this girl, I get that.

“Tell me what happened, Francesca. Please.”

She didn’t reply.

“Your father found the texts,” Myron said, trying to draw her out. “Were you home when that happened?”

She shook her head. “I came in a few minutes later.”

Silence.

“Was your brother home?”

“No. He was at the Little Gym. He had a class there on Mondays.”

“Okay,” Myron said. “So you came home. Were you coming from school?”

Francesca nodded.

“Were your parents fighting?”

She squeezed her eyes shut again. “I’d never seen him like that.”

“Your father, you mean?”

She nodded again. “They were in the kitchen. Dad was holding something in his hand. I couldn’t see what. He was screaming at Mom. She was covering her ears and ducking down. They didn’t even notice I was home.”

Myron tried to picture the scene. Ten-year-old Francesca opens the door. She hears Hunter screaming at a cringing Nancy in the kitchen.