“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

He stood and the chair was shoved toward him.

“Sit down.”

He sat and they continued their walking, their rubber heels making hollow sounds on the wooden floor, like a drum echoing inside his head.

“Mister, please,” he cried, “I don’t know nothing . . .”

“Shut up!”

“Please, mister . . .”

“Maybe he’s playing out,” Murphy said. “Maybe he wants a drink of water . . .”

He saw the three policemen exchange quick glances.

“Sure, sure,” Lawson said placatingly. “The boy’s thirsty.” Lawson came to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Say, boy, how’d you like a drink of water, a cool drink . . .”

He did not answer.

“Talk, goddammit!” Lawson shouted. “We don’t give a damn if you sit there and roast! But if you want water, then say so . . .”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Though his throat felt as dry as a red-hot oven, he really did not want water; he wanted to go home. Murphy left the room and Lawson and Johnson leaned against the wall and lit cigarettes. Sweat stood on their foreheads and their eyes held a preoccupied look that made him think that maybe he was not really there in the room with them at all, that all of this was some weird dream that must end soon. The door opened and Murphy came in with a glass of water in his hands.

“Here you are, boy,” Murphy said, coming forward. “See, we’re nice to you, ain’t we? We’re your friends. We don’t want to hurt you. But you got to talk, see?”

“But I done told you all I know, mister . . .”

“Here,” Murphy said kindly, extending the glass, “take a drink first . . .”

He reached for the glass and held it timidly in his fingers; ice tinkled against the sides of the tumbler and the chill of the water was soothing to his palm. Lawson and Johnson edged closer. The warm air of the room made the glass sweat and slowly his glands responded to the look of the cool fluid.

“Go ahead and drink, boy. I’ve got to take that glass back,” Murphy said.

He lifted the glass to his lips.

“Wait, boy,” Murphy boomed at him. “Tell us what you did with the money you took out of the desk in the Peabody home.”

“Honest, mister, I was never in that place in my life . . .”

“Aw, let ’im drink, Murphy,” Lawson said.

“Go ahead and drink, boy,” Murphy said, seeming to relent, taking a short step backward.

He filled his dry mouth with cold water and was in the act of swallowing when he saw a white fist sweeping toward him; it struck him squarely in the stomach at the very moment he had swallowed the water and his diaphragm heaved involuntarily and the water shot upward through his chest and gushed forth at his nostrils, leaving streaks of pain in its wake. At the same instant the glass leaped from his fingers and bounded with a ringing twang into a corner. Coughing, he pitched prone on the floor, face first, and lay twitching. Pain balled in his stomach and he began to gag amid his coughing as more water trickled through his nostrils and lips.