Little Lambs Village is an amazing place — I know that. When Jonah had his visit there, we were given a tour and a chance to see activities and meet some of the staff, and I totally get why my parents were impressed by it. It’s a cheerful, modern place with great facilities and programs, and the grounds are beautiful. But despite the impressive tour, a lot of important questions remain unanswered in my mind. Like, how will they handle it if he has one of his rages and hurts someone? Will they kick him out if he’s too difficult? How will they get him to cooperate with bathing and shaving and tooth-brushing? Will they overmedicate him? How will he understand what we’ve done, sending him away?

Who will hug him? Who will stroke his back the way he likes?

I try to stifle my sobs, glad to be hidden in the towering bookshelves of the library. I go farther back, almost to the end of the row where no one could possibly wander by, and slump to the floor. A barrage of questions rolls through my mind, and there is no answer for any of them. Jonah, without us? Jonah, far away? With no way to tell us if things are okay there? To tell us if he’s sad and confused and misses us?

Will someone sing to him? Will they let him watch his nature videos?

Oh my god — my dad. How will my dad cope with this? My dad’s devotion to Jonah is complete. Imagining him separated from Jonah, not being able to see him every day and know he’s okay, is unbearable.

I dig in my backpack for tissues, but I can’t find any. I fling the bag aside.

“Um,” a voice says.

I glance up, alarmed. It was so completely silent that I thought I was alone. But peeking around the shelf, looking indescribably awkward, is Sam Jones, holding out a napkin.

I’m mortified. I scramble to my feet, wiping my eyes. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Do you need this?” she asks, her gaze skittering around like it’s not sure where to land.

My nose is running like a faucet. I take the napkin she’s offering. “Thanks,” I say, embarrassed by what a mess I am.

Sam looks so confused and uncertain that I feel like I should offer some explanation for my presence and emotional state.

“I was just picking up a book on English country manors. For STOTS,” I begin. She nods, and then in a rush I add: “And then my mom called and said we’re sending my brother away!” I blink, alarmed that I actually said it. I’m always very careful about what I say out loud — the version of me I show the world sometimes bears little resemblance to the person I am inside.

“Sending him away?” she says, her expression baffled.