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.

Sitting on my window seat, I gathered Bayley into my lap. Carefully I uncrumpled and smoothed Ezra’s letter.

Dear Nyle,

The first time I remember seeing you, you came with your hair full of wind and sunlight, smelling of autumn and sheep. You didn’t want me here, though you never told me so. You say a lot without talking. That’s the way in your house. You learned it from your grandmother.

You guided me back to health the way you guide your sheep, patiently, gently, in single syllables. You made room for me.

When I was sick, you took care of me. You fed me, you sang to me when you thought I couldn’t hear. I was a stranger, a threat, yet you did these things for me.

I stared at my rough hands holding the paper he had held. I swallowed hard.