Sitting very still, staring at the floor. A sensation of great weariness came over me, a wish to lie down on the carpet, shut my eyes that were so heavy-lidded, sink into sleep as into black muck . . .

“. . . the one who seems to have actually struck the black boy, isn’t he? ‘Jerome.’ And Lionel has refused to testify against him . . .”

Was this true? I guessed it had to be true. Neither of my brothers had testified against the other. The other boys had been vague in their confessions. (Were they afraid of Jerome? That, someday, when they were all free, Jerome might seek them out and hurt them, if they’d ratted on him, as I had?)

Ms. Herne had to know that I’d ratted on my brothers. That this was why I’d been exiled from my family and made a ward of Niagara County and was living now with relatives of my mother.

Never dared ask Ms. Herne about my parents—if they had forgiven me yet? if they had asked about me?—for the questions would be so piteous, Ms. Herne would be embarrassed.

Each day I lived in apprehension of hearing sudden, upsetting news from strangers like Ms. Herne, or one of the teachers at school, like the ninth-grade math teacher with the steel-wool eyebrows who seemed to lie in wait for me, daring to ask questions of me in a lowered voice—You’re the girl, are you? Kerrigan? Your brothers are in prison for manslaughter, beating a black boy to death, isn’t that you?

The humming grew steadily louder. I was beginning to hear—Kerrigan, Kerrigan. Killing can, KERRIGAN.

“Violet, it says in this report from Family Court that both your brothers’ convictions are being appealed. This was back in June. D’you have more recent news?”

Shook my head no.

“No?”—Ms. Herne smiled and winced at me as if she was hard of hearing.

N-No.

All I’d heard, vague news from Aunt Irma, was that the New York State Court of Appeals was very slow. And lawyers for my brothers were very expensive.

I wondered if Ms. Herne knew something about the appeal that I didn’t know. That she didn’t want to share with me.

“Violet? Are you all right, dear?”

From a long distance the social worker was peering at me. So far away, I could not really recognize her homely turnip-face and her voice was muffled by the roaring of wind.

“—try to open your eyes? Violet?”

Had my eyes closed? I didn’t think so—wasn’t I looking at the woman? On a ledge she stood, slightly above me. Between us was a ravine into which (I seemed to know) I must not look for there were terrible things in it, broken, mutilated and bleeding.

“Violet! Please wake up . . .”

Ms. Herne was tugging at me, alarmed.

Blindly I pushed hands away. I did not like to be touched.