“Thought I’d do the assignment with you. Keep you company,” said Ezra.

“You don’t have to.”

Ezra shrugged and kept writing.

As I stared at my blank notebook, Ezra filled one side of a page. His script slanted every which way.

“You have lousy penmanship,” I said, trying to read his sentences upside down.

“You’re one to talk,” Ezra answered, moving his arm so I couldn’t see his paper.

At last I started writing too.

I read over my words, changing one here, crossing out a phrase there.

Finally Ezra put his pen down and looked up.

“Can I read mine to you?” I asked. “I picked Anne Frank.”

Ezra nodded.

“Dear Anne Frank:

“You are the person from history who had the greatest impact on my life. Though you never reached adulthood, you taught me more than many people twice your age. Your death opened my eyes to the horror of prejudice and war.”

I looked at Ezra. His chin rested on his fist as he leaned on the kitchen table.

“I admire your courage and your, and your—” I had trouble deciphering my own scribble. “—and your—spirit.”

Caleb paced over, his nails clicking on the linoleum, and rested his head in Ezra’s lap.

“You and your family had to live in fear, every waking and sleeping moment. There was never any break for you. But you kept on. You helped each other. Sometimes you got on each other’s nerves. I can understand that.”

I thought about Gran. I thought about Ezra and his mother.

“You were an ordinary girl forced into an extraordinary situation. Your death keeps all of us from forgetting what you died for.”

I took a deep breath. “Well? What do you think?”

Ezra stared into space and I wondered if he’d heard one word.

“It’s good, Nyle,” he said at last, as if waking from a dream. His eyes blinked against the light, even though the light had been on the whole time. “It’s good.”

Ezra looked so strange, as if something hurt inside him. Suddenly he stood. Crumpling his paper, he tossed it into the trash.

“Ezra.” I don’t know why my heart rapped so hard against my ribs, but I wished it would stop. Had what I written upset him? I didn’t mean to upset him. “Ezra, what I said about Anne Frank, I feel about you, too. What I said about courage and spirit. I think you have every bit as much as she had.”

“Do I have to die in the end too so people won’t forget what I died for?”

“No!” I cried.

“I’m tired, Nyle.” Ezra walked away from me. He didn’t say good night.

“Wait! Ezra?” I raced after him, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen.

Ezra looked up.

“I’m sorry I wrote something that hurt you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Good night, Ezra.”

“Good night.”

My mouth felt dry. I sat back down in the kitchen to wait. When I was certain he wouldn’t come out again for the night, I went over to the trash can, reached in, and pulled out the crushed paper.