Yes I did pray for Hadrian Johnson and his family and for my family too. For my brothers. At the age of twelve no longer really believing in prayer or in God listening to prayer or even in God (most of the time) guessing that God was just another adult trick to make you behave as others want you to behave.

If you are wondering who I am, and why I am writing—I am the sister of the Kerrigan brothers Jerome Jr. and Lionel. I am the one who told police about the baseball bat. I am the “informer”—the “rat.”

But I can never write these words. I have no way to speak in my own voice.

Since there is no return address on the envelope containing the valentine, Ethel Johnson will never write to me, to thank me. If she had an inclination to thank me.

In this way I can never feel slighted or hurt.

Or maybe Ethel Johnson would return the money if she had my address. Perceiving that it has been sent by a (white) person with a guilty conscience. Thank you but we are not in need. Please do not write to us again.

AS SOON AS I MAIL THE VALENTINE TO THE JOHNSON FAMILY THE air around me becomes brighter.

It is February eleventh. Bitter cold here in Watertown, on the Saint Lawrence River near the Canadian border, with a wind that brings temperatures to below zero.

No more than two days should be required for the valentine to be delivered to Howard Street, South Niagara. In time for Valentine’s Day.

As usual I have been careful to affix not one, not two, but three first-class stamps to the envelope which is oversized and noticeably thick stuffed with bills.

How airy I feel! A panel seems to be opening in the bleak sky.

I am made to feel light, effervescent. The leaden sensation drains from my limbs.

I am most alive at such times. I am hopeful. My vision is almost too sharp.

I notice things that would otherwise pass in a blur of distraction—gorgeous neon-orange graffiti scrawled against a building like a hieroglyphic, black-capped birds on a wire with feathers puffed-up to twice their natural size. Above the river frothy horizontal clouds of the kind called cirrocumulus. The sound of wind in the trees—soughing.

Faces of strangers startling and beautiful.

Eyes of strangers startling and beautiful.

Other days are muffled and blurred and pass as if underwater. Must drag myself through them. Force myself to breathe.

Keeping myself alive is the goal. Today, I feel this is possible.

Keeping Myself Alive

TAKING MONEY FROM A MAN. THERE’S NEVER EXACTLY A first time.