Let me stress one thing about Billy. My brother is a fighter. He’s overcome more challenges than anyone I know. When he was born, he was so small and sickly, no one thought he’d survive. He was slow to roll over, late to walk, and unable, or unwilling, to talk. When he finally did, he stammered so severely, he was unintelligible. By kindergarten, Billy had undergone a series of surgeries to repair his heart. Between his lousy health and stutter, elementary school was torture, and he kept falling behind. But with help from speech therapists and tutors, he caught up to his peers and eventually surpassed them. Children who stutter, particularly boys, often excel later in life. King George VI and James Earl Jones are great examples of this. So is my brother. At twenty-two, his repetitions (disfluencies, they’re called) are infrequent, and he’s mastered strategies for heading them off. Still, his impediment is a wily beast, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Certain words trip him up; and in moments of high stress, he’ll struggle to say simple sentences. It’s why his arrest, however bogus, is so terrifying. Like Nate said, if Billy is scared, he can’t defend himself.

Nate calls again. Seeing his name, I feel a weight press down on my neck and shoulders. We’ve already spoken several times, most recently an hour ago. He caught me just as I zipped up my bag. His timing is impeccable, as if he’s tracking my every move. There’s a fine line, I’ve come to realize, between loving someone and suffocating her.

A few minutes later, feeling restless and twitchy, I call him back. “I’m on the other line,” he says brusquely, like I’m the one stalking him. “It’s about Billy.”

“You told me not to tell anyone.”

“These are people I trust.”

I’m skeptical of Nate’s sources the same way I’m skeptical of Nate. My brother has a wealthy boy’s overconfidence, so he often misses the nuances in a conversation. The next time he calls, for instance, he tells me Billy won’t actually be home tonight. “The Bowtie does know a few judges in New Jersey, but they can’t release Billy.”

“They can’t or they won’t? Shit, this is bad.”

“It’s just a question of timing,” Nate assures me. “The Bowtie’s request came in too late today, so it’ll happen tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I remind him. “No one works on Sunday.”

“Prisons are like hospitals; they’re open every day.”