The real reason I have rushed us to the bus station is my secret. Mother grew up in a shack with dirt floors, and the poor girl that she was still haunts her: the two pairs of underwear made from old flour sacks that chafed her skin, a broken comb with six uneven teeth to do the combing, and the daily walk from a mud hut to Keziah Academy in shoes with more holes than leather. She never caught the Ocean Current to school, so she has no idea how the seating on the bus works. If she knew, she’d smack me for playing a part in keeping the rich students and the poor students apart, so I’m not about to tell her.

“Be good.” She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and blinks back tears. “Mind your teachers and keep up your marks.”

“I will.” I let her hug me in front of the crowded bus. Snickers come from the open windows. Hugging is for babies. I love the feeling of being held close, but I keep my face blank. Showing my emotions will get me teased by the bully boys for weeks.

I pull out of Mother’s embrace and go to ruffle Rian’s hair. He steps back and offers me his hand instead. Already man of the house. Rian’s independence annoys me, because showing him affection in public is actually allowed. Everyone knows that Rian is sick. The last time he had a major asthma attack was smack in the middle of second term last year. May 12. I remember the date. Mr. Vincent, the white American principal of Keziah Academy, drove the dirt road from school to the Norwegian hospital in Mahamba with the high beams on and the accelerator pressed to the floor. Steep mountain passes fell away into darkness, and stones pinged the underside of the car. Death rode with us. We heard it shortening Rian’s breath, willing him to surrender. To stop breathing.

Mrs. Vincent sang the Halls of the Holy hymn book from the first page to the last while I clutched my brother’s hand and prayed—not for show, the way I do in chapel, but for real. Please, God. Don’t take him. Take another boy. Take one of the mean ones. Take Richard B, Gordon Number Three, or Matthew with the lazy eye. Please. They deserve to suffer.

The doctor at the Norwegian hospital said that Rian had severe asthma—up until then, we’d called what he had “the struggles”—and he needed a mother’s care and a clinic nearby. Our house is three miles from Christ the Redeemer Hospital, where the Catholic sisters inject the sick with needles and pull rotten teeth out with pliers.