They divorced when I was fourteen, when her drinking had progressed to the point that it was no longer safe to leave my brother and me with her. He divorced her after almost eighteen years and about a million second chances. It was at this time that my sister Nancy divorced herself from our entire family and moved to Chicago.

“She’s . . . I spoke to her doctor. She has cirrhosis of the liver and kidney failure. Doesn’t have long.”

“You sure? She called me the other night drunk.”

“It’s her medication. She’s in the hospital. Makes her sound drunk.”

I thought about how I had spoken to her, guilt spreading through me.

“She needs someone right now,” Dad said, “and that can’t be me. Jake’s not cut out for it, and the only thing Nancy’s going to do is dance when she’s dead. It can only be you. It’s got to be you.”

“I know of no other way to put this,” I said.

“Okay,” Jasper Evans said.

He was huge man—one of the largest inmates on the compound. Well over six and a half feet tall, well over three hundred pounds with skin the color of Tupelo honey and teeth to match.

“I hear you’re one of the main suppliers of drugs on the compound.”

We were seated in my office in the chapel.

It was less than an hour until the worship service and the sounds of the choir rehearsing could be heard from within the chapel sanctuary. They were working on the song for today’s service, “Power in the Blood”—a song I had never cared for.

Since he didn’t respond, I said, “Is it true?”

He shrugged, tilted his head, and made a What can I say? expression.

“How long you been dealing?”

“Don’t deal. Supply.”

“You can no longer be our choir director.”

“Why? It’s two different things. I know doing that shit ain’t right. I don’t do it. I just transport a little of it—and not any of the hard stuff. But I love to sing. ’Specially Gospel music.”

“I know you do. And you’re good at it. But I can’t let you lead the choir.”

“I got to sing,” he said.

I nodded. “But not in the choir and not as the choir director.”

“You our chaplain because you perfect?”

I shook my head. “You don’t have to be perfect. But you can’t be a drug dealer.”

“This because of what happened to Ike. Had nothing to do with that.”

“Who did?”

He shrugged. “He was taken care of. That’s who did him. Wasn’t no inmate. Had to be an officer. He do whatever the hell he want. Get high every day. Stopped getting it from me a long time ago.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the info. See you at the service in a little while.”