Brazil would be twenty-three next May, and the urges had not lessened with time. He had been faithful to Dr. Rush, who, according to local gossip, was not faithful to his wife and never had been. Brazil thought about sexuality as he ran a few sprints before trotting home. It seemed to him that love and sex were connected but maybe shouldn’t be. Love made him sweet and thoughtful. Love prompted him to notice flowers and want to pick them. Love crafted his finest poetry, while sex throbbed in powerful, earthy pentameters he would never show to anyone or submit for publication.

He hurried home and took a longer than usual shower. At five past eight, he was moving through the cafeteria line in the Knight-Ridder building. He was in jeans, pager on his belt, people staring curiously at the boy wonder reporter who played police and always seemed alone. Brazil selected Raisin Bran and blueberries as the intercom piped in WBT’s wildly popular and irreverent Don’t Go Into Morning show with Dave and Dave.

“In a fast-breaking story last night,” Dave was saying in his deep radio voice, “it was revealed that even our city’s mayor won’t go downtown at night right now.”

“Question is, why would he anyway?” quipped Dave.

“Same thing Senator Butler should have asked.”

“Just checking on his constituents, Dave. Trying to be of service.”

“And the eensy weensy spider crawled up his water spout . . .”

“Whoa, Dave. This is getting out of control.”

“Hey, we’re supposed to be able to say anything on this show. That’s in the contract.” Dave was his usual witty self, better than Howard Stern, really.

“Seriously. Mayor Search is asking everybody to help catch the Black Widow killer,” Dave said. “And next up is Madonna, Amy Grant, and Rod Stewart . . .”

Brazil had stopped in the middle of the line, frozen as the radio played on and people made their way around him. Packer was walking in, heading straight toward him. Brazil’s world was Humpty Dumpty off the wall, cracks happening everywhere at once. He paid for his breakfast and turned around to face his ruination.

“What’s going on?” he said before his grim editor could tell him.

“Upstairs now,” Packer said. “We got a problem.”

Brazil did not run up the escalator. He did not speak to Packer, who had nothing more to say. Packer wanted no part of this. He wasn’t going to insert his foot in his mouth. The great Richard Panesa could fix this one. That’s why Knight-Ridder paid him those big bucks. Brazil had been marched to the principal’s office only twice during his early school years. In neither case had he really done anything wrong. The first time he had poked his finger into the hamster cage and had gotten bitten. The second time of trouble occurred when he inserted his finger into the hole at the top of his clipboard and had gotten stuck.

Mr. Kenny used wire cutters to free young Brazil, who had been humiliated and heartbroken. The blue Formica clipboard with its map of the United States was destroyed. Mr. Kenny threw it into the trash while Brazil stood bravely by, refusing to cry and knowing his mother could not afford to buy him another one. Brazil had meekly asked if he could stay after school for a week, dusting erasers on back steps to earn enough to buy something new to hold notebook paper and write on. That had been okay with all.