"Jesus," I said, fighting for breath and searching my bag for my cigarettes. "What the hell is that?"

"Bat shit," Danny said, unaffected by the stink. "They live in the attic and the roof. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Take shallow breaths. You'll get used to it."

We passed door after door, these smaller than the ones downstairs, without any windows into the rooms. The doors wilted in their frames, bent and weakened. Nailed into each door was a rusty metal number, just like the apartment doors in my building. I touched the number nine, my apartment number, and rust flaked off on my fingertips. Glued under the number was a small ceramic clown. Missing one hand, it clutched broken balloons in the other. Still, this clown had held up better than half the building. I rubbed at the filth on its smiling face with my thumb and the door creaked. I jumped back and hustled after Danny, who had stopped before a door at the end of the hall.

"This was my room," Danny said, pushing the door open. "Me and six other boys."

I walked up behind him. Room fifteen. His clown had both hands but no head. No balloons, either. Over Danny's shoulder, I peered into the room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet.

Tile walls, tile floor. Chessboard black and white. Like the asylum lobby, like the kitchen in Danny's apartment. Huge, thick water pipes ran across the low ceiling. No way seven children of any age or size fit in that room. There wasn't room for more than three beds. There was no toilet, no heater. I saw no fixtures where either might have been. One window set higher than any child's reach and guarded with thin iron bars stared out at the world. One concrete eye to watch the moon.

"Danny," I said, "your room was next to mine, in our parents' house."

"They didn't even give us beds," Danny said. "Just filthy blankets that they washed once a month. We had fleas, like dogs. One kid couldn't even scratch himself. He had no hands."

"We each had our own bed in our own room," I said. "The same one, with the ship's wheel for a headboard. Remember?"

"What do you remember, Kev?" Danny asked. "About us at five, six. We're less than a year apart. Shouldn't you remember something?"

I searched: the two of us Christmas morning under the tree, or out in the backyard under Mom's watchful eye while she tended her garden, or getting dragged off to church in our Easter best. I could see the two of us at eight, ten, twelve years old walking back and forth to school, playing Wiffle ball in the street, but back before that was only me. No Danny in the emergency room after I'd hit the ice, no Danny building flower boxes with me and Dad. There were places he wasn't and should have been so I tried putting him there.

Danny came into the pictures and flickered back out, a snow-flake that wouldn't stick. I squinted my mind's eye and tried to focus on specific things, his eyes, his hands, the sound of baby talk and crying, but I came up empty. In every memory he should have inhabited, Danny floated beyond the edges of my vision, inches out of the frame. I could feel him out there but I couldn't pin him down, couldn't get a grip on him. He was like a lost name dancing on the tip of my tongue.

"You're asking about a time," I said, "when I was . . . when we were very young."

"But you remember other things, I bet," Danny said. "Birthday parties, preschool, trips to the park, moving to Staten Island. Where am I? I'm not there because I was here."

I was surprised, in fact, how far back I could remember. Details from when I couldn't have been more than four or five. The stink of baby goats at a petting zoo, the rye-bread smell of the crackers I fed them. The blue and white blanket I carried everywhere. Red cowboy boots I always wanted to wear to church. God, I had pitched such a tantrum the day we left Brooklyn to move across that big, scary bridge. I screamed myself hoarse. All kinds of things popped up. But not Danny.

"I mean, yeah, there's some shit," I said, "but it's all vague. Bits and pieces. I was . . . we were so young. One day it was me, Mom, and Dad in Brooklyn, and then it was the four of us on Staten Island. One day you're just . . ."

"I'm just there," Danny said. "Out of the blue. All of a sudden. You can't remember me in the Brooklyn house at all, can you? Shouldn't I be there? I would've been five when we . . . when you moved."

Couldn't be. Danny couldn't be right. Then I thought of Mom. Talking to Danny like a baby patient, talking about Dr. Calvin, pacing the living room carpet wondering how to bring Danny home. I covered my mouth with my hands. Everything blurred and my knees went watery. Holy shit.

"It took me months to put it together," Danny said. "In here, walking the halls, my own nightmares in front of my face like some old ghost town movie set. Maybe 'cause I was so fucking high." He walked to the window. "It clicked for real when I took a good look out this window."

I stood beside him and looked out. There was nothing to see but the night sky and a rolling, empty field beneath it.

"This place takes its name from that field," Danny said. "Bloodroot Valley. Every spring that field goes white with bloodroot flowers. I've only seen it a couple of times. The blooms don't last but I know it happens."

I swallowed hard. "Mom's garden. That's when we knew spring was here, when the bloodroots bloomed."

"This is where she got them," Danny said. "And this is where she got me. She worked here; I fucking know it. How do you think Grandpa knew so much about Calvin and what went on here?

He had an informant. He had photos, for chrissakes. You think that would've been allowed here?" He chuckled. "Mom fucking stole me from here."

I believed. I remembered enough for that. My mother suddenly quitting nursing not long after the move to Staten Island, when that was the reason we'd moved there to begin with. That she got a new job at a big children's hospital. At least that was what I'd always been told. But no one had ever said which one. Had Grandpa sent her here? Made our mother his own spy in the enemy camp?

"Imagine finding out," Danny said, "your worst nightmares are actually your memories."

"I never knew. No one ever told me." I pulled the rum out of my jacket and took several long swallows. "This is un-fucking-believable."

I offered Danny the bottle. He waved it off.

"That doesn't make it go away," he said. "Believe me, I know."

"Why? Why are you telling me all this, after all these years?"

"Those people at your school," Danny said, "they want to build a memorial here, for all the kids that never made it out. Restore this place, give tours. Make it a museum. Show off the antique exam tables and the old-fashioned wheelchairs. How sick is that? It was a living hell, a mad scientist's laboratory where they gave kids diseases as experiments. Made us into pincushions before I ever even heard the word heroin.

"This fuckin' place needs to be ground into dust. I need that to happen. Santoro can make it happen, if we help him." Danny gripped the bars over the window. "Can't you see the symmetry here, Kev? It's fate. It's irresistible. Me, after all these years, coming back to destroy this place.

There's millions at stake here, Kev. Millions. And we can get us a slice. A big one. All of us, you, me, Mom and Dad can get taken care of for life by bringing this place down. It's perfect.

It's justice. This place that made me a monster is gonna free me from every shitty thing I've ever done because of the needle." He turned to me, his eyes shining in the moonlight. "You gotta help me. One last time. So I can sleep through the night without a head full of chemicals. Help me finish what Mom and Grandpa started. Let's make Dad proud."

How could I say no? True blood or not, he was my brother. We'd lived too long that way for it ever to be different. That was one thing all our secrets would never change.

"Sometimes I still come up here to this room," Danny said, turning back to the window. "Early, early in the morning. Instead of getting high I watch the bats come home. Count them like they were stars."

TWELVE.

AT NOON, I SAT ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE HISTORY BUILDING, TWO cold slices of foil-wrapped pizza in my lap and two warm Cokes at my feet. The young elms and birches behind me rustled in the breeze, their shadows playing over the concrete at my feet. Nearby, two squirrels sat on their hind legs, eyeing me sideways, their eager paws fidgeting at their chests.

I watched Kelsey stride my way, her arms swinging freely, a big brown paper sack in one hand.

Thankfully, she'd brought something of her own. On my way out to the bench, I'd realized I should've had something delivered for us, since I'd made the invitation. Unfortunately, that realization came early enough for me to feel guilty about it but too late to do anything other than be willing to give up a slice. Maybe we'd save the crusts for the squirrels. I knew that's what they were hoping for.

When Kelsey got close, the squirrels darted away, scrambling up the same tree, where I knew they'd watch us, eager to snatch up whatever we left behind. I wondered what or who else watched us. I scanned the campus for Al, half-expecting to spy him propped up against a building, hidden behind an upside-down newspaper. The comical imagining did me no good. I didn't trust Al. I couldn't shake the feeling that in his eyes I wasn't a welcome addition to the family. I wished Kelsey and I had planned to eat inside. Or that I'd been smart enough that morning to kill whatever it was we'd started between us.

She surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. Pulling off her jacket, she sat close to me. She wore a purple short-sleeved soccer jersey with a red and green crest I didn't recognize over her right breast. She had gracefully muscled arms, something I'd failed to notice in the dark the other night.

"What's the good word?" she asked.

"Paranoia," I said.

"Ah, don't worry," she said. "Everybody thinks we've been doing it all along anyway. Maybe the word for the day should be 'self-fulfilling prophecy' ? " She noticed me checking her out and tapped her index finger on the crest. "Portugal. Europe's first great navigators. They invented the compass."

"If you say so."

"Wow. You're in a mood," Kelsey said, unpacking a plastic container from the paper sack. "Did your eleven o'clock go that bad?" She handed me the container. It was heavy and warm.

"No, it went fine," I said. "I'm sorry. I've been sitting here thinking thoughts I'd rather avoid."

Out of the sack she produced a paper bowl and two plastic forks. She took the container back from me and peeled off the lid. The hot, tangy scent of lasagna, rising on steam, made my mouth water.

"If you're gonna dump me," Kelsey said, "which would be a record, by the way, we only did it two days ago, can you wait until tomorrow? I did cook for you, kind of." She shoved half the lasagna into the bowl, stuck a fork in it, and handed it to me. "And I'd like some company tonight."

I opened both Cokes and gave her one. "I think that can be arranged."

"If it's not too much trouble," Kelsey said. "So eat. You need to keep up your strength."

I happily shoved huge forkfuls of sauce and beef and pasta and cheese down my throat. Thoughts of another night with her thrilled and relaxed me at the same time. As appealing as the sex was, I really craved the sanctuary she offered, a dark, warm place away from everything else. It wasn't a perfect secret but I wasn't going to let that blunt my enthusiasm. Al could sit outside all night if he wanted. We'd draw the shades and shut him out. It felt real good having something to look forward to.

"I need to ask you something personal," I said when we finished eating.

"Yes, I'm on the pill," Kelsey said. "And as long as you've been tested recently, we can forgo the condom this time."

I laughed. "Appreciated, but that's not what I was going to ask."

"Do you realize," Kelsey said, "that I've directed every attempt you've made at conversation back to sex?"

"You don't love my mind," I said. "I can live with that. Neither do I most of the time."

"You were good to me at the Red Spot," she said. "I owe you one. What's the question?"

"When your mother was dying," I said, "how far would you have gone to save her?"

Kelsey took her time answering. She first packed up the remains of our lunch, everything going back into the paper bag. "Odd question. How about you give me a cigarette?"

Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and there they were. It was strange. I couldn't remember picking them up that morning before I left the apartment. After a couple of drags, she started talking.

"You know, I thought about that a lot before she died. I had way too much time to think. I prayed for a while to trade places with her, but then did I really want her at my bedside watching me die? I would've blown my brains out before I let that happen. Or at least slunk off somewhere where she wouldn't know what was happening, like dogs and elephants do."

"Did you ever wish she'd done that? That she'd left you out of it?"

"God, no. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, spending those last few weeks with her. Half the time I felt like a vulture, just sitting around waiting on death. But there's nothing worse than suffering alone. I couldn't let anyone I loved endure that. She would've forgiven me for not being there, but I never would've forgiven myself."

"So you can suffer alone," I said, "but it's cruel for anyone else to do so. Contradictory, isn't it?"

"I can do that," Kelsey said, "for I contain multitudes." She smiled. "It's part of my charm."

"Say there was a cure," I said, "but for some reason you couldn't get it by ordinary means, like you couldn't afford it or it was illegal or whatever. What would you have done?"

"That's easy. I'd have done anything. Lie, steal, con, sell my body."

"Kill someone? Would you do that?"

Kelsey slid down the bench, stretching her long legs, folding her arms across her chest. "That's a tough one." She released a long sigh. "No. I'm lying. It's easy. Yes, I would've killed someone to save her life, especially with her suffering like that. I'd put myself at the top of the list. No doubt. Anyone that says they'd do otherwise is a liar."

She sat up suddenly, leaned close to me. "What did you do, Kevin? What are you trying to justify? This is hardly conversational foreplay." She blinked at me, backing away, an idea flickering across her face. "Your brother's in trouble, isn't he? That's why he came looking for you."

Feeling caught and exposed, I looked away, struggling for what to say next. I should've known Kelsey would make the leap to Danny. That she was so sharp was a big reason I liked her.

Maybe I'd wanted her to make that connection, to get me somewhere I couldn't on my own.

Still, I had to be careful.

"He's not in trouble," I said. "He's doing great, actually. Now. It's just . . . I know there are things he did while out on the streets, things he did to survive, that I might be struggling with.

Where do I stand if, say, Danny's history puts me, technically, at cross-purposes with the law?

Like, because of things I knew."

"Your brother was a criminal," Kelsey said.

I stared at her. She did get to the point a lot better than I did, I thought, even if the past tense didn't apply to Danny. Or to me, for that matter. "Well, he's not a serial killer or anything like that. He's just a former junkie."

"Are there cops at your door?" Kelsey asked. "Is he a threat to you or your family?"

"No," I said. "It's not like that. I'm talking about the past."

"You're his brother," Kelsey said, "like I'm my mom's daughter." She paused, took a deep breath. "That shit's forever." Kelsey put her hands on her thighs and set her shoulders. "There are, and I believe this to my core, higher laws than the few, sad ones mankind has devised. I'm not going to get all Jesus on you; God is a whole different conversation. So let's call them blood laws. Blood as in family. When blood laws and human law contradict, blood laws rule."

She'd given me the answer I wanted. I didn't know why I couldn't just accept it. "Is there anything that absolves you from these so-called blood laws?"

"Nothing," Kelsey said. Her voice had bite. "Not in a serious situation, certainly not in a life-or-death situation like the one with my mom." She relaxed. "Okay, so it can affect whether or not you come over for Christmas, or something like that. But you get my point." She leaned close to me, her hand gripping my thigh. "I will tell you this. If I had a chance to get my mother back, like the chance you have with Danny, there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep her. And I mean nothing."

She stood, staring into the trees for a long moment before looking down at me. "Kevin, whatever is happening with you and Danny, I don't need to know. It's between you and him. I'm here if you need help, and if you want to keep it private, that's cool, too." She bent and grabbed her bag.

"You'll do the right thing; I got faith in you. You're kind of a slacker, but you're a good man."

She nodded at the history building. "Now let's go. Duty calls."

I stared up at her. I hadn't been called a good man in a long time, hadn't felt like one in even longer, but I did right then. I glanced at my watch. "What? I don't have class for another ninety minutes."

"Yeah, but Whitestone's press conference started five minutes ago."

"Aw, fuck." I'd actually read that memo. You couldn't miss it. The announcement for the latest Friends of Bloodroot event was plastered all over the office and I'd managed to space out on it anyway. Every teacher in the department had to attend, per direct orders of the dean. And he'd be enough of a prick to take attendance.

KELSEY AND I SLIPPED through the double doors of the conference room and stood with our backs against the wall. A few heads in the standing-room-only crowd turned at our entrance.

The crowd of about fifty seemed to be mostly history teachers and yawning students I figured had been offered extra credit for attending. Up front against the wall leaned a few bored-looking reporters and photographers. Whitestone, who spoke into a microphone at a podium in front of the room, never broke stride. On the screen behind him hovered a large projection of an artist's sketch of the new museum. I had a feeling that was as far as the planning process had gone.

"And so," Whitestone was saying, "though the sacrifices of those children were unwitting, they deserve commemoration. Justice needs to be done. Their tiny, forgotten souls demand it. Those children need a champion, and that's why I've called you all here today. To publicly acknowledge, praise, and thank Ms. Ida Horace, the first recipient of the Friends of Bloodroot Children's Champion Award." Applause began. "Ida, stand up for us, please."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," I whispered. Kelsey, thinking I was kidding, shushed me and slapped my arm.

Whitestone approached a pint-sized, blue-haired lady in the front row who couldn't have been a day over ninety. Ida looked like she hadn't left the house since the Eisenhower presidency.

Stooped with age, she reached only to Whitestone's shoulder. He slipped his arm around her, turning Ida toward the cameras, and smiled big enough for the both of them. I waited for him to present her with a plaque or certificate, some token of appreciation, but the photo op comprised the entirety of Ida's award. After kissing her powdered cheek, Whitestone helped Ida resettle into her wheelchair, then strode back to the podium.