Davonte wasn’t sure writing was, in fact, among his talents—unlike making music, it went very slowly and didn’t usually turn out the way he’d imagined it. But he had ideas, and that was the important part, wasn’t it?

They pulled up in front of a great house. Disembarking, he was separated from the talkative woman, but that was okay. He had a strange shameful feeling, new to him but frequent, since he’d come to the Ranch, that he had said too much. Why had he told a stranger about those museum visits with his mother? It was none of her business. He edged away from the rest of his classmates in line.

• • •

They met up again in one of the galleries. By then Davonte was impressed with John Ringling—the museum was like a big empty house, with polished wood floors and plush carpets and gold wallpaper and painting after enormous painting. Passing through the open terraces between galleries, you could see elaborate gardens, marble sculptures, a distant, turreted building that must have been the mansion. No tents or clowns or funhouse mirrors.

The woman was sitting on a narrow bench before a large painting of the Christ Child. Mary was holding back a sheet to show him off, and he was being admired by a cherub and a couple of old men. His skin, and Mary’s skin, glowed white as the moon.

Janine—that was her name—was bent over a notebook, furiously scribbling, when suddenly she began gasping and heaving. Afraid she might be crying or struck by some sort of religious feeling, Davonte started edging toward the next room, but then she stood and pointed to her throat. She was choking.

Shit, he thought. He looked for someone to help, but the adjacent galleries were empty. Her face was turning purplish-blue.

He stood behind her and whacked her back, but she continued heaving and gasping in a terrible, airless way. He conjured an image from a poster he’d seen, positioned himself behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist, just below her ribs. He clasped one hand over his other fist and thrust upward once, twice, and she was suddenly sputtering and wheezing, her hands on her knees.

“Are you okay?”

“Candy,” she gasped. Her eyes were shining with tears, and she still looked terrified. Her voice was scratchy and raw. “I was sucking on a candy, and it went down the wrong way. If you hadn’t been here—”

“Everything all right?” A guard came in, worriedly checking the big paintings but not Janine, who was still gasping. The guard was short and slow, an older woman. Davonte thought she probably wouldn’t have been able to help, even if he’d called her.

“I’m okay. This man did the Heimlich on me.” Janine put a hand on Davonte’s arm and squeezed. “He saved my life.”