Bayley tunneled against my ribs and started purring.

I whispered to the quiet dark. “He had a dog.”

Bayley made a little mreep in the back of his throat and moved closer.

I wondered if going across the hall tonight was part of doing something you’d rather not. I’d taken the first step toward that room and the boy whose fate was sealed by his presence in it.

And tomorrow, even though I’d rather not, I’d be going back to that room again.

Four

Plunging my stinging hands deep inside my pockets, I pulled my arms tight to my sides and tried to hold my shivering in. The harsh November wind cut through my mask.

Muncie rocked from side to side as we waited for the bus in a small square of sunlight by the shoulder of the road. Behind us, the green iron bridge with its wood-planked roadway spanned the river.

“You look tired,” Muncie said through her mask. Her voice sounded high and thin, like a child fretting.

Under the gauze I licked my chapped lips. My lips and cheeks were always too red, like I wore makeup. Gran said the high coloring came from spending so much time outdoors, but plenty people spent time outside—they didn’t all look like me. “Late night,” I said, turning my back against a gust.

“You never came up to do homework.”

I shrugged. “No time.”

A knot tightened in my stomach. It would be hard finding time for Muncie, what with chores and now Ezra and Mrs. Trent.

“Did you finish the essay for English?”

I nodded. My head itched under my wool hat.

Gran had handed me the hat earlier, as I headed out the kitchen door.

“Pull it down over your ears,” she said.

My hair is fine and the color of light honey. It stands up crazy whenever I wear a hat.

“I don’t need a hat.”

“Wear it anyway.”

I tugged the hat down hard on my head, feeling nasty.

“Seen the boy yet?” Gran asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

The lines in Gran’s face barely shifted as she nodded.

“Nyle?” Muncie said. “I asked what you wrote about for English.”

I blinked. The cold made my eyes water. What was taking the bus so long?

“Do you think M.C. should have left the mountain?” Muncie asked.

“What mountain?”

“Sarah’s mountain.” Muncie’s voice frosted with exasperation.

“Oh…M.C. Higgins.” Muncie was talking about the book we’d just finished for English, about this backwoods boy and his family. “Yes. They should have left. It was a mountain of death. I’m sure it got them in the end, after the story.”

Muncie looked down at her boots. “I was glad they stayed. They belonged there. They had a place for themselves there. Maybe they couldn’t have fit in anyplace else.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but then again, maybe if they’d moved, their lives might have changed for the better.”

“They were going to die,” Muncie said. “Whether they moved or stayed. I’m glad they stayed.”