“Yes. They stopped me once. It wasn’t a mugging or anything like that, just name-calling. Harassment. If you could have someone arrested for calling you a nigger or a faggot, the jails would be too full. I should have tried to fight back. But it was four of them, maybe five. I was new to the neighborhood. This guy wasn’t one of them though.” Jesse pointed to the guy who appeared the youngest.

“You’re probably right,” said the detective. “He’s the strangest one. We found him lying naked in the chalk outline of the body. He must have been waiting for us before the neighbors called the police. He acted like he wanted us to take him away and make everything all right.”

“Will I have to testify?” asked Jesse.

“You may have to answer a few questions about your friend. But you won’t be actually testifying against them. They’ll contact you about the trial date. I don’t know when it is.”

Just then I felt funny, like what could I do? “Are they out on bail?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want to run into any of them.” I looked at Jesse, but he was studying the photographs again and watching the detective.

“You have nothing to worry about, Miss,” said the detective.

“Thank you, Detective Stone,” said Jesse.

Then I said thank you and followed Jesse out of the office and the precinct building without saying anything more. It was chilly outside and the trees had few leaves. We walked to the subway. Jesse seemed relieved, his feet light. This time he actually smiled. “Let’s get a warm drink,” he said. “We deserve one.”

We went to the Peacock Café. I took a window seat and pretended we were in Europe somewhere. I had a large cappuccino. Jesse had Mexican hot chocolate with whipped cream. With his waistline, he could afford it. Not me.

“The saddest thing,” I said, “is that those guys are so young. They’re kids, really. What do they know?”

“They know enough to kill,” Jesse said. “When killing is a cure. Especially for something you just can’t live with.”

“A cure?”

“For what they may feel inside them. Confused about who they are, so they end up doing anything just to find out what it takes to be a man.”

“And when they see someone who’s different—”

“They attack. They’ve caught something inside them. Who, at fifteen, wants to be called a faggot?”

“Really,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I hope they stay locked up for a long time.” But then I remembered Phillip and tried to take back what I said. Change it at least. “Well, until they learn different.”