After Ms. Herne was gone a sensation of cold swept through me. For possibly my brothers would be released from prison sooner than anyone had expected? Were already released? And no one would tell me, to alarm me?

To warn me?

Sisters

KATIE—WILL YOU TELL ME? LET ME KNOW? IF—

Hidden away in my room with the door shut writing a postcard to my sister. I wasn’t sure what to say. Which words to choose. For everyone in the family hoped that my brothers would be released from prison as soon as possible—(except me).

Everyone seemed to think that the convictions were unjust, unfair. So many times it had been reiterated—It’s just because they are white—white boys. You would think that Hadrian Johnson had assaulted them.

Maybe you could call me? If there is news? Here is Aunt Irma’s phone number if you need it.

Of course, Katie already had the number. I’d made sure that she had the number. Though neither she nor Miriam had called me in the eight months I’d been here.

If Lionel is released, and if—if he says something about me . . .

Meaning: if Lionel threatens me with harm.

Katie knew. And Miriam must have known. That I was terrified of Lionel and Jerome being released from prison though having to pretend that I was hoping they’d be released, like everyone else.

. . . if he threatens me? Will you let me know?

An appeal into a void. Like leaning over a deep well and calling down inside with your hands cupped to your mouth and waiting, waiting, waiting for the faintest echo.

LATER IT CAME TO ME THAT SENDING A POSTCARD WAS NOT A good idea. If I sent Katie a postcard anyone in the family could read it including my mother.

But if I sent Katie a (sealed) letter Mom would notice that too and be suspicious, and (possibly) open it . . .

I tore up the postcard for Katie. I began a letter to Miriam, who’d moved out of the house on Black Rock Street, I had heard, and was renting an apartment downtown.

Miriam was working as a secretary for a South Niagara accountant. She’d been eager to leave home even before the arrests of my brothers but she’d waited too long, the scandal had been too much for her fiancé who’d broken off their engagement . . .

Hoping that Miriam didn’t blame me.

Hours were required for me to write a letter to Miriam though it was less than a page. A sensation of dread suffused me. I had not been wanting to think how badly I missed my sisters, as I missed my mother; writing to them was like talking to them, pleading with them, and left me emotionally shaken.

Miriam! Katie! Have you stopped loving me, too . . .

I am so lonely. Please!