No response, then he half sat, remaining slumped so low that his trunk nearly paralleled the cot. Big torso, disproportionately short legs. His ears were low-set, flaring on top, folded over in an odd way. Stubby fingers. Webbed neck. A mouth that never fully closed. His front teeth were small and ragged. The overall picture: “soft signs”— suggestions of abnormality that didn’t qualify for any formal syndrome.

“I’m a psychologist, Rand. Know what that is?”

“Kinda doctor.”

“Right. Know what kind?”

“Hnnh.”

“Psychologists don’t give shots or examine your body.”

He flinched. Like any other inmate he’d been subjected to the full course of physical scrutiny.

I said, “I deal with how you’re feeling emotionally.”

His eyes floated upward. I touched my forehead. “What’s in your mind.”

“Like a shrink.”

“You know about shrinks.”

“Crazy nuts.”

“Shrinks are for crazy nuts.”

“Hnnh.”

“Who told you that, Rand?”

“Gram.”

“Your grandmother.”

“Hnnh.”

“What else did she say about shrinks?”

“If I didn’t do right she’d send me.”

“To a shrink.”

“Hnnh.”

“What does ‘do right’ mean?”

“Bein’ good.”

“How long ago did your grandmother tell you that?”

He thought about that, seemed to be really working at figuring it out. Gave up and stared at his knees.

“Was it after you were in jail or before?”

“Before.”

“Was your grandmother angry at you when she said it?”

“Kinda.”

“What made her angry?”

His grainy skin reddened. “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” I said.

No answer.

“Has Gram been to see you, here?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah.”

“How often does she come?”

“Sometimes.”

“She have anything else to say?”

Silence.

“Nothing?” I said.

“She brang me to eat.”

“What’s she bring you?”

“Oreos,” he said. “She’s mad.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?”

“Everything.”

“How’d you do that?”

His eyes fluttered. The lids dropped. “My sin.”

“Your sin.”

“Killing that baby.” He lay back down, flung an arm over his eyes.

“You feel bad about that,” I said.

No answer.

“Killing the baby,” I prompted.

He rolled away from me, faced the wall.

“How do you feel about what happened to the baby, Rand?”

Several seconds passed.

“Rand?”

“He laughed.”

“Who laughed?”

“Troy.”

“Troy laughed.”

“Hnnh.”

“When?”

“When he hit her.”

“Troy laughed when he hit Kristal.”

Silence.

“Did Troy do anything else to Kristal?”

He was inert for nearly a minute, then rolled back toward me. His eyelids lifted halfway. Licked his lips.

“This is tough to talk about,” I said.

Small nod.

“What else did Troy do to the baby?”

Sitting up with the stiff, labored movements of an old man, he encircled his own neck with his hands and pantomimed choking. More than mime; his eyes widened, his face turned scarlet, his tongue thrust forward.

I said, “Troy choked the baby.”

His knuckles whitened as he squeezed harder.

“That’s enough, Rand.”