At that comment, Rashid almost told Gerald about Kofi, but the burning in his throat made it impossible to speak. So he still hadn’t said anything. He thought a lot about that conversation he’d had with Kofi—when Kofi told him that he didn’t believe in Jesus anymore and how school was making him question everything. He hadn’t understood it at the time; it made more sense to him now. It was like standing in quicksand but not being able to call out—everyone had to think that the ground beneath his feet was solid.

His parents rarely called. Rashid called them every other week or so, collect. He usually spoke to his mother, who quietly conveyed hellos from his father. It would have been less expensive for them to call him, but every time his mother would comment on the cost and promise to call the next time, and every time she didn’t. In the old days, his mother never would have kept doing that—she used to watch every dime like it was going to be her last. Rashid felt that he had to keep talking to her, to them, or they would disappear altogether. The conversations were filled with long pauses even when he tried to tell her stuff that he was excited about:

“Ma, I’m running cross-country. I’ve got one of the best times on the team.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t let it keep you from your schoolwork. What’s the weather like up there?”

“Cold.”

“Well, make sure you button up that coat. Work going okay?”

“It’s a lot of it, but yeah, I’m getting it.”

“Good. Your daddy and I, we knew you could. You a smart boy. Just like Kofi was …” Her voice trailed off. She made some reference to Kofi every time they spoke, and every time, it seemed to render her mute with sorrow.

Sometimes Rashid wanted to say, “Well, I’m the one who’s doing it, Mama. I’m alive, goddammit, and I’m fucking doing it. It’s kicking my ass, but I’m doing it.” Sometimes he just wished he was a little boy again and could go crying to her and she’d hug him. Sometimes he felt numb. But all he said was, “Yeah, Ma. I know.”