That loss did not touch his core. He'd never been close to Addy, or even had a chance to get to know her. He'd never been quite sure what to make of her, especially after hearing his mother say Addy was the kind of woman for whom having kids would've ruined her life. It wasn't that he took it personally (Addy had always been perfectly nice to him), but it had made him a little wary.

His father used to say that part of his mother's dissatisfaction in life had to do with the fact that growing up a twin, she'd never felt she was unique or special enough. Which perplexed Cole, not just because he would have given anything to have had a twin brother but because he thought being a twin meant that you were were special. special.

Once he'd absorbed the fact that Addy, too, had vanished from the earth, his strongest feeling was not loss but grat.i.tude that his mother had been spared this. Because even though they had lived far apart, and even if his mother had not been happy about being a twin, he knew that she had loved Addy. He remembered that Addy was the first person she had turned to after his father died.

Remember not the former things (Isaiah). (Isaiah). Forget and press on Forget and press on.

But in the days leading up to the broadcast, Cole found himself living more and more in the past. As if his memory were like an empty stomach now, needing to fill itself up.

Lying in his parents' bed, in his father's flu germs-this he remembered so well it could have happened that morning. Cole had never spoken out loud his wish to die. (The secrets piling up, one after the other; he carried them with him, stones in a sack.) That feeling had pa.s.sed; he'd stopped wanting to die.

He did not have the strength for such a powerful wish.

The pills he was given in the hospital, the ones he was promised would make him feel better, he'd cheeked them and later flushed them away. Feel better for what? Feel better for what?

And when he was well enough to be moved to the orphanage (actually a converted warehouse for an electronics supply company that had gone out of business), it had helped not to care. It made the transition easier, as things are easier when you don't care what happens to you.

He did not feel better, he did not feel worse. He was a stranger inside his own skin. He did not eat much, some days not at all. Either he had trouble falling asleep or he slept around the clock.

He did not make friends. He avoided people-and not just the ones you had to avoid if you didn't want trouble. He avoided everyone, other kids and grown-ups alike. But in fact, unless you were a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger or a rapture child or injured or very sick, you were not likely to attract much grown-up attention.

"Sounds to me like it wasn't much better than a kennel. Is that right, my dear? You got food, water, and shelter, but not much else?"

"Yes," Cole said-truthfully, yet his face reddened as if he'd lied. He knew he was expected to say more, and he could have said more. About the way kids fought over food. About how some kids would take food away from other kids, partly out of hunger, but mostly to be mean. They'd throw the food around (Here Be Hope food fights were epic), or do something to it so that even the hungriest kid wouldn't eat it. (Though there was the time a boy had a coughing fit, and when a chunk of meat flew out of his mouth another boy caught it midair and stuffed it into his own mouth.) It had happened a few times to Cole, having his food s.n.a.t.c.hed (usually by Da Phist), but since he was never very hungry it hadn't affected him too badly.

They had names like Pharocious II and Grime-Boy and n.i.g.g.ahrootz and Da Phist. The black kids.

The white kids called themselves Methastofeles and Skull Mother and Kid Hammer and Dude Snake.

The grown-ups did whatever they could to keep them apart, and when they failed there was mayhem.

He knew this was what he was supposed to be talking about, what he had already talked about with PW, who in turn had told all to Boots. But in the sound booth, Cole had gone all but mute. He knew what he was supposed to say, but the words wouldn't come, and Boots was being forced to do most of the talking.

"We've all heard people call these places d.i.c.kensian. Would you say that's a fair and accurate description?"

"Yes."

At first, before he'd heard it so many times, he hadn't been completely sure what "d.i.c.kensian" meant. He'd always a.s.sumed it had something to do with Christmas. He thought of the dreadlocked giantess who told everyone to call her Mama Jo, but whom everyone called by another name instead, forever fuming about the "d.i.c.kensian" or "barbaric" state of things, and how funny it was the way she shook her fist at G.o.d at the same time she was begging him to help her.

Mama Ho. In a quiet moment alone with her (haircut, delousing), Cole once heard her say the pandemic had set life back a hundred years. She was crying then, and he'd worried she would nick him, the way her shoulders were jerking. But those were the days when, rather than stop whatever they were doing, people would just go about their business in tears. Everyone was used to the sight. His mother- "Why don't you share more about it with us? You know, just-in your own words." Boots was smiling and his voice was calm, but Cole knew Boots couldn't be very happy with him at this moment.

Come on, Cole. Words. Remember? But now was not a good time to be thinking about his mother. But now was not a good time to be thinking about his mother.

"It was like life was set back a hundred years?"

"Ah. Well said. Can you elaborate?"

"Like, we didn't have any computers or cells, and that was weird. There were a couple TVs, but they all got smashed or stolen. We didn't have lots of books. We had some paper and some pens and pencils. But we didn't have real school." These few lines had exhausted him, but he labored on. "We had cla.s.ses. Sometimes. Only not real cla.s.ses. I mean, they'd put us in groups and make us talk about something, and maybe they'd give us homework. But it wasn't like, you know-it wasn't like school school."

None of the kids could get over it. Days and weeks pa.s.sing without any school, and no one able to say for sure when they'd be going back again. The rumors that, in fact, there were schools reopening out there. Just none ready to take orphans.

"What about religion?"

"I didn't go to church."

"You don't have to 'go' to church, son. Church happens wherever and whenever folks come together to pray and ask forgiveness for sins and worship the one true G.o.d. No special edifice required. Did that ever happen? Did people ever read the Bible together? Did anyone lead you boys and girls in prayer?"

Cole shook his head. Boots frowned, but without losing his smile, and pointed to Cole's microphone.

The great thing about radio, PW had told him, is that people can't see you and you can't see them, so you don't have to be all that nervous.

But from the moment he entered the sound booth Cole had seen them: sitting in their kitchens or in their cars or offices or shops, listening to him the way he and Tracy listened when PW was on the air, listening to every word.

He had also seen himself, through their eyes, larger than life, the world's biggest r.e.t.a.r.d.

And besides, what about the people-Mason, for one-who Cole happened to know were tuned in right now, and who knew exactly who this r.e.t.a.r.d talking (or not talking) was? How was he ever going to show his face to those people again?

Through the window he could see Tracy and PW, sitting outside the booth but able to hear everything through the speakers. Whenever he glanced their way, PW would bob his head enthusiastically while Tracy flashed her widest smile, probably without realizing she was wringing her hands at the same time. Cole was aware of Beanie Gill, a young man he knew from church, sitting in a smaller booth built into the opposite wall. Like Cole and Boots, he had headphones on, and he was constantly monitoring some controls. From what seemed like another room Cole heard Boots repeating his last question, and there was a quaver in Cole's voice as he replied that he didn't know, he couldn't remember.

Yet as soon as he said it he did remember. There'd been plenty of religion at Here Be Hope, he just hadn't taken part in any of it, hadn't been forced to. It was there that he'd first learned what a rapture child was, and he remembered how everyone-grown-ups even more than kids-trailed after those children, pestering them about the Second Coming. It was then that he'd first started to understand what the Second Coming meant. He remembered how, at night, in the crowded room, boys could be heard saying their prayers before going to sleep, just as he himself did now. Mama Ho carried a Bible with her and read from it, sometimes to herself, sometimes out loud to others. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever forget the sound of her voice as she read, a little-girl voice that sounded cartoonish coming from such a large woman, and the way she punctuated each pa.s.sage with a brief snort, like a horse or a bull. He remembered all this in the instant after he'd spoken, but he was too shy to open his mouth again. It was too late to change his answer; it would only make him look dumber. He kept quiet, avoiding Boots's eyes. He would not look at PW, either. Shame was like a sticky substance he could feel on his scalp and under his T-shirt. Later, listeners would tell him how they'd been able to hear him breathing.

The agony went on and on (in reality, just another few minutes) as Boots tried to draw him out. He asked questions about the gangs and about the fights that had ended with somebody knifed or knocked senseless. He asked about the boy who'd hanged himself with the same belt one of the guardians, in a drunken fury, had used to beat him. He asked about the runaways and about girls who got pregnant. Using the word violated violated (a word he'd prepared Cole for beforehand), he asked about rape. (a word he'd prepared Cole for beforehand), he asked about rape.

Cole was good at keeping secrets, but not at faking. One thing he knew he could never be was an actor. And so it was hard for him, knowing that Boots already knew the answer to every question he asked. Cole understood that by pretending not to know, Boots was just trying to make the program more interesting. But to Cole it felt not only dishonest but silly. Mostly he just answered yes or no.

"Sounds to me like a living, breathing h.e.l.l," Boots said solemnly. Cole said nothing. His throat was constricting. He felt a surge of emotion as it struck him that, in fact, it had not been h.e.l.l. Though he'd longed to escape it, the orphanage had not been so bad at all. The thought brought a sizable shock-never would he have believed while he was there that he could think such a thing. But looking back now, he realized that, again, he had been lucky. And he hoped people listening to the radio wouldn't think he wanted them to feel sorry for him. He worried that maybe he'd exaggerated when he told PW stories about the orphanage. If he could find his tongue now, he'd explain how it was mostly about hiding from the bullies, who had a way of picking on the same kids all the time anyway. You were lucky not to be one of those kids, but to stay lucky you also had to avoid them. You had to be ruthless, you had to refuse to have anything to do with them. You had to refuse to help them. Today, the memory of this shamed Cole. But it had all been so complicated. The most dangerous and despicable thing you could do was to snitch, and nine times out of ten helping someone was going to mean snitching. Still, he liked to think that if he ever had to go back, or if he was ever in that kind of situation again, he would do the right thing. It was a hard truth for him to acknowledge, how far away he was from being a hero. He liked to think if he had another chance he would act differently. He would not abandon the weak. He would battle against injustice. He would protect and defend the unlucky ones.

And there was another reason the orphanage meant more to Cole than just brutal memories, and this had everything to do with his secret life in that cavity under the stairs. And then it had turned into a blessing, not having any friends, because it meant he could disappear and no one would notice; he could hide out for hours without being missed and no one would come looking for him.

It was at Here Be Hope that Cole discovered he could sit and sketch for longer and longer stretches without getting bored or distracted, as he used to do. And for the first time he understood that he carried this in him: the ability to shut everything out-not just the unhappiness of the moment but the past with all its pain and loss and the future with all its question marks-by concentrating on this one thing, which happened also to be the thing that made him happier than anything else he knew how to do.

He imagined this was the way someone like PW or Tracy must have felt when they prayed. He himself had not yet experienced such a feeling while praying. And not that he was saying prayer and drawing were the same, he knew that wasn't right; but in his mind they lay so close they touched.

"I have here a newspaper article."

Cole had known Boots was going to bring up the dog.

He never knew exactly where they'd found it. There were the runaways, many of whom you never saw again, and there were the kids who sneaked in and out whenever they felt like it and who sometimes stayed out overnight or even longer-and what were you going to do about it, kick them out for good? They came back with loot like cigarettes and vodka and weed, and bursting with stories about what they'd been up to-usually, if true, even worse than what they did at "home."

They could have found the dog anywhere. The pandemic had orphaned pets, too, and you couldn't go far in any direction without seeing strays. Stray dogs formed packs, some harmless but others a danger to anyone they happened to scent. Dogs didn't get the flu, but neglect or violence had been killing them and other animals off by the score, their unburied remains yet another danger.

Kid Hammer and Dude Snake, brothers two years apart-with Dude Snake, though the younger, being the bigger and meaner-claimed to have hunted and killed the dog, but Cole didn't believe them. Not that he didn't think they were capable of this, but the way the muzzle was pinched said the dog had been dead a while.

The dog was dead, but they tortured it anyway.

"Then they cut off its head."

A female. From the look of her-the thick skull and boxy jaw-Cole thought at least part pit bull. He'd been surprised there wasn't more blood.

"They stuck the head on a broomstick."

"Like with the pig in Lord of the Flies Lord of the Flies?"

"Yeah."

He had never read Lord of the Flies Lord of the Flies, though his father had kept pushing it on him. When it was a.s.signed in cla.s.s, he had SparkNoted it, even though this was against the honor code (which, of course, no one took a molecule seriously), so he knew the story. His father kept saying it was the kind of book boys Cole's age really liked, and Cole did know kids who said it was off the hook, but the notes made it sound boring. In any case, why would he want to read a whole book about bullies?

"Then what?"

"I don't know. They kinda marched around with it. They took turns holding the broomstick and chasing other kids with it."

After a day or so the lips had shrunk away from the teeth, giving the head a vicious mad-dog grin, like it was going to bite you and laugh about it at the same time. Another day or so and it didn't even look like a dog anymore but more like some kind of wild beast or mutant.

"They propped it up in this closet, and they played this game where they'd catch kids and lock them up alone in the dark with it."

Little kids. They would scream and pound on the inside of the door. Some of them p.i.s.sed or s.h.i.t themselves, or threw up. A boy named Arnie, who'd lost most of his hearing after having the flu, did all three before pa.s.sing out.

"I understand one time it was you who got locked in with the monster?"

However fond he was of Boots, at that moment Cole wanted to punch him. Monster! Monster! If only he'd never told anyone that stupid story. If only he'd never told anyone that stupid story.

"Yeah, but it was nothing. It's not like I was scared." (Like he really thought a dead dog could hurt him.) "They were just trying to show me because of something I said. They said I dissed them."

"Why? What did you say?"

"That I didn't believe they killed the dog."

It still bothered him. The only person to whom he could remember saying he didn't believe Kid Hammer and Dude Snake had killed the dog was Mama Ho. But she wouldn't have gone and repeated it, would she? He couldn't believe she'd be that clueless. On the other hand, he could think of plenty of instances of an adult getting a kid in trouble just by being uncool. Like the girl in his cla.s.s who wrote a poem about touching her girlfriend between the legs (well, more than just touching), and whose teacher showed it to both girls' parents. Even Cole's mother said that was wrong.

It was possible someone else had overheard him. He remembered a kid named Kelvin hanging around that day, weak little nerd, no shoulders, no chin, chief bully target and one of the first to be locked in with Jaw Head. Possibly really p.i.s.sed at Cole for not lifting a finger to help him.

They treated Cole the same as they treated Kelvin or Arnie or any other little kid, shoving and b.i.t.c.h-slapping him as they pushed him inside, barking and snarling like dogs themselves as they trapped him by sitting with their backs against the door. They knew he wasn't scared, but they weren't trying to scare him; they were trying to do to him what they did to other kids when they stripped them and forced them to march around naked.

You would have sworn Jaw Head was singing to itself, but it was the flies. A black velvet mask of flies. Maggots frothing in the eye sockets. Every inhale torture. Cole breathed through his mouth, cupping his hand over it so he wouldn't inhale a fly. That was the worst of it, the flies landing on him, the same flies that had touched the putrid head settling on his skin, his face, even on his lips before he covered them. He'd been in a rage then, a rage that had stayed with him for days, maybe longer, but that rage was gone now. He was less angry at what those boys had done to him than at being reminded again how far he was from being a hero.

By the time the reporter came, Jaw Head had long since been seized and tossed into the trash like a worm-eaten cabbage, but no one had forgotten it. Not the worst Here Be Hope story by far, but one a lot of kids would rather tell than any other. The reporter heard it many times, and though it wasn't the only story she wrote about in her article, it was the one that got into the headline.

Not that Cole was going to go into all this on the radio. According to a large clock on a wall outside the booth, fifteen minutes were almost over. Which would have been a vast relief if it hadn't meant that now Boots was going to invite people to call in. Always when Pastor Wyatt was on the show there were plenty of callers. Cole was thinking he'd never make it to the end when he saw Boots lean sharply toward him, a worried look further warping his crooked features.

Boots was dressed as usual: Western shirt, bolo tie, Wrangler jeans, rodeo belt buckle, ostrich boots. Cole had often seen him dressed like this, had seen him in this very outfit before. But at this particular moment he looked different. He looked very strange. Cole knew, of course, it was Boots, "Grandpa" Boots, sitting there. But somehow at the same time sitting there was a person Cole didn't know at all, and suddenly he was afraid. Who was this weird old dude? What did he want? What were they doing there in that tiny room, into which some kind of gas was now being released?

Cole's heart bulged as if he were trying to lift something too heavy for him. Then a dark, smothering cloud pressed down on him. The headphones hurt like a vise. Tiny bright lights flashed at the corners of his eyes, and a force like an undertow dragged him by the ankles off his chair.

When he opened his eyes again he was outside the booth. He was on his back on the cold floor. Someone was singing. A chorus; a hymn. I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free. Cole smelled vomit, but fought the idea that it could be his.

PW and Tracy were there. They knelt on either side of him. Their faces were all tender care, but they might as well have been holding daggers at his throat. For an instant Cole saw nothing except a pulsing black rectangle with a fiery border.

"Let me go, get the f.u.c.k away from me!" Swinging fists, thrashing feet. Grazing PW's chin, accidentally kneeing Tracy's chest. He watched her face turn white before crumpling. Then she was gone, though not far-he could hear her trying to catch her breath as Boots took her place, helping PW to restrain him.

"Where's my mother? What did you do to my parents? I want to see them. You can't keep me here!"

Moments later, he lay still. He lay curled on his side, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. His hair and his shirt were wet with perspiration. He felt like a rag someone had wrung out and flung down. His stomach felt wrung out, too. He had no idea what could have happened to him. He knew only that he had disgraced himself.

Tracy was there, gently ma.s.saging his back. He might as well have kicked her on purpose for all the guilt he was feeling. And he doubted anyone had ever said f.u.c.k to her face before. But when he turned he saw no trace of anger in her expression, and later, when he tried to apologize, she hugged him and said, "It'd take a lot more than that to rattle this lady's cage." But as PW and Beanie were helping him to the car, Cole caught the parting look she shot Boots, a look that hissed I told you so! I told you so!

Warm bed, warm milk, the doctor's deep warm voice. No, Cole wasn't losing his mind again. Overexcitement. Nerves. Stress caused by traumatic memories. All that-a lot!-but nothing a day's rest wouldn't cure. And, of course, prayer. "Still the best medicine."

(Instantly Cole's thoughts flew to pretty, cat-faced Dr. Ming, his pediatrician in Chicago, who finished every exam by tickling his ribs and reminding him that laughter laughter was the best medicine.) was the best medicine.) Left alone, Cole lay in bed feeling very tired but not at all sleepy. It was the middle of the afternoon, and though the blinds were closed, bright sunlight leaked around them. He felt stifled under his covers, but as soon as he threw them off he was freezing. He turned round and round, like a rotisserie chicken, unable to get comfortable. His mind was racing. He thought back to a day when Pastor Wyatt had come to see him at the orphanage. Not the first time-not the rainy gray Sat.u.r.day on which they had first met-but a later visit. They were sitting and talking in one of the common areas when PW dropped the word adoption adoption-and even though Cole was already fond of PW and felt perfectly safe with him, a rush of fear had made him jump up and run away. It was the same kind of fear he had experienced years earlier, when he was around five or six and obsessed with the idea that if his mother let go of his hand when they were out in public, someone might try to s.n.a.t.c.h him.

Afterward he had been embarra.s.sed, and he had felt bad for PW, whose feelings Cole was sure he'd hurt and whom he guessed he'd never see again. But in fact PW came again the very next day, and the first thing he said to Cole was, "We've got to get one thing straight. There can't ever be any adoption without your consent."

"What a place," said PW, shaking his head.

It was three weeks later, and this time PW had come to Here Be Hope to take Cole away with him.

"Looks like they can't find your stuff."

He was referring to Cole's few clothes and other belongings, which had been packed into a large cardboard box by one of the staff. That morning at Here Be Hope had been particularly chaotic; several children besides Cole were leaving for new homes the same day. PW thought maybe Cole's box had been taken by someone else by mistake.

"In which case, they should return it. Anyway, we're not going to sit around all day while they try to find it."

There were some papers in the box, including Cole's birth certificate and his medical records, but Cole barely gave those a thought. He was far too upset about his drawings, and about another item, one he never mentioned to PW or to anyone else and which he tried to forget once it appeared that the box was probably missing for good. Something he'd managed to bring with him from the house in Little Leap and hold on to throughout his long illness. It had gone with him, washed and folded and tucked into a pocket, when it was time for him to leave the hospital and move to Here Be Hope. He had promised himself he would never lose it, but now it was gone: his mother's blue bandanna.

COLE WAS EMBARRa.s.sED by all the get-well calls and messages. He was embarra.s.sed by all the prayers. He became fl.u.s.tered when Mason dropped by the house and greeted him with a high five. "You did good, bruh."

Mason shrugged off Cole's fear of having ruined the program. "What? We heard a little commotion, then silence for a bit, then 'His Eye Is on the Sparrow.' No biggie! Nothing for you to feel bad about. Besides, dude, it was yesterday."

An echo of what both Boots and PW had already a.s.sured Cole, who nevertheless remained doubtful. You make a public spectacle of yourself, life can't just go on like before, can it? True, no one laughed openly at him. But he didn't think he was imagining it when, the next time he was at church, a few people avoided looking him in the eye.

Fortunately, there was something new for everyone to focus on: Starlyn's birthday party. Actually, there were going to be two parties. One was the Sat.u.r.day afternoon surprise party her aunt would be throwing in Salvation City. The other would take place in Louisville the Friday evening of the week before, a much bigger and more grown-up affair in the banquet room of a hotel: a dance party. Cole wished he could be at that party, too, mostly because he wanted to see Starlyn in the fancy new dress he'd heard her tell Tracy all about-specifically, to see how any dress that was both strapless and backless could stay on. And he was curious to see her date, her boyfriend, about whom there'd been talk as well.

It took his mind off his fresh humiliation to be working on Starlyn's gift: a charcoal portrait based on one of Tracy's many photographs of her niece. Tracy had also helped him pick out a frame for the drawing, one with real pressed flowers under the Plexiglas, which made Cole happy every time he looked at it.

Cole was fairly satisfied with how his drawing finally came out, but when he imagined Starlyn unwrapping it in front of everyone else he felt almost sick, and so he was more relieved than disappointed that there were so many presents for her to open, she couldn't spend time fussing over any one of them. He could tell she liked the drawing from the way her eyes lit up when she peeled the paper away. In the photo she was smiling, but Cole had drawn her with her lips closed and slightly pursed. Tracy said it made her look like she was praying, but that wasn't what Cole had been thinking about.