RASHID HAD NOT been able to sleep through the night since Kofi’s death. Almost every morning around three A.M. he would find himself awake, feeling as though he had been shoved by a cold, flat hand. His eyes popped open as though someone had called his name, and he lay there staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding. When he was at home, most times he could get out of bed and go sit in the living room, staring out the window and waiting for the gray dawn to gather, or watching an infomercial to distract himself. Sometimes he’d get to the doorway of his bedroom and find that one of his parents was already up, sitting in his place at the window. Then he made his way back to his room, to lie stiffly on his bed till his alarm went off. His thoughts were usually memories of Kofi or questions about him—Kofi laughing, Kofi bloody in the street, what Kofi’s last words might have been, the look on his face as the bullet pierced bone. During the day, Rashid found he could cope—Kofi’s death always hovered there, a dark space in the corner of his mind, but he could push it away when he needed to. But at night it was unavoidable, burning his eyes and searing his throat.

Not much seemed to bother Gerald. He slept the sleep of a man who knew his place in the world, his breath soft and even, his sheets rustling occasionally Sometimes Rashid wished he could talk to him, tell him what it was like not to be even able to fucking sleep. To be so tired all the time. So tired that his head felt full of cotton batting. Sometimes he wished he could tell him about the blood on the street, about the funeral, about how he wished he could talk to Kofi about school. But he couldn’t.

Chelsea gave the boys very little free time during the school week, keeping them loaded with activities and schoolwork. But in the middle of each semester there came a short respite, separate from the traditional holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Gerald invited Rashid home with him—“On me,” he said—for the fall break, and Rashid, feeling awkward about the free ride but unable to afford a trip home, accepted.

“This boy said he’d pay your way for a visit?” said his father when Rashid called to tell them his plans.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s okay. It was his idea. Him and his parents.”

“And he’s black?”

“Yes, Dad.”