I mean, technically no. The Hannigan home was filled with showtunes and smiles. Ricky always smiled, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t scared. Those scribbled warnings weren’t cheerful. A grin spreads across the Reverend’s feverish face. “Ricky lived many years after his attack—happy years. Years that had nothing to do with this place. He married a man. His name was Rigo. It didn’t last, but what can you expect? When his mother’s health was better, she took Ricky wherever he wanted. They did everything. That Playbill you say you’ve got, that was from after his accident.”

I would have kept better care of the Playbill if I’d known how much it meant to Ricky, how difficult it was for him to get all the way from White Eagle to Broadway just to see the show. It’s lovely to know Ricky had a husband named Rigo and that he was happy, but rage nevertheless rises like a hot-air balloon, filling every corner of my brain, my organs, down to my skeleton. Rage for the Reverend. Rage for Mrs. Hannigan, who refused to tell me what really happened. I suppose staying quiet about the Reverend’s misdeeds meant he’d pay for Ricky’s health care, Meals on Wheels, and Broadway tickets. That was worth more than justice. In a depressing way, I understand. The Reverend would’ve been carted off to jail, and Ricky’s care would’ve been left to the state or whatever measly money Mrs. Hannigan could scratch up working at Denny’s or whatever.

It’s worse that it makes sense.

“Mr. Major, I’m happy to finally share this vista with you,” the Reverend says, nibbling the nails on his uncuffed hand. “It helps to appreciate the view with someone who has fresh eyes. I’ve lived in Ambrose my whole life, and believe me, I’m as sick of those fields as you are. But then…after a while, this ocean becomes its own field.” I spin my wrist inside the tightened cuff. There aren’t any loose rocks anywhere near the bench, nothing big enough to pummel him. “Don’t dream of escape. Focus on your therapy. Take this first week—”

“First week?” I snap, pulling his arm with me as I jump to standing. “I have to get back to my son. I can’t—”

“You can’t?” The Reverend stands taller, his stomach bumping the top of my chest. “You can’t? You can’t what? Stay here? Mr. Major, you’ll be surprised what you can do. What this place brings out in you.” The Reverend digs into his pocket with his uncuffed arm and—after a struggle—presents a crumpled ball of plastic. Bits of corkboard crumble off into the wind. “You’re such an excellent student of the Winner’s Wall. You probably noticed some damage above Ricky’s picture.”