"Well, that's what people thought."

"And now you think the old man wants to kill himself."

"I do."

"That is muy loco, too."

"The word I'd use is 'sad,' " says Hattie. "It's muy sad."

Sarun purses his mouth up and puts out his hand, wanting the remote control. His hand, though, is cupped and uninsistent, like a monk's.

His gang friends come visit. It is strange to see the white van drive down to the trailer and park in the open; and how strange, too, to finally behold its occupants. Hattie counts seven of them. Who knows if this is the whole gang or just a contingent, but they're mostly dressed in black like Lennie Dow the bone picker, with black hair; and all of them are short, and keep their hands in their pockets. Are they armed? Hattie can't help but wonder, even as she recalls Josh's fourth-grade winter a.s.sembly and how every single boy did stand there on the bleachers with his hands in his pockets, too. It could mean exactly nothing. None of these boys has blond hair the way Sarun used to, but most of them have gone either super-long or super-short-some of them super-short with super-long strands-no Confucian moderation, extremity is all. Oversize jackets and sweatshirts; pant legs that puddle at the bottom like Gift's; baseball hats facing to the back or side-most of them with do-rags under them, but not all. Tattoos. Gold chains and earrings like Sarun's but also big rings on some of their fingers and, of course, earbuds. Unlike Lennie Dow, though, they not only remove their buds as they enter the trailer, but shut their MP3 players off, besides-a mannerly bunch. In fact, they enter so respectfully-so swaggeringly shyly-that Sarun has to wave at them to take off their jackets. They take off their sneakers, too, and repeatedly refuse Mum's offer of snacks; she has to offer three times before they finally accept a bag of chips. To the extent that they look at Sophy at all, it is furtively. Still, Sophy quickly disappears. Mum slides Hattie a plate of vegetables to chop as if this is Hattie's job; they work side by side in the kitchen, keeping watch as the boys settle in. The living room is too small, and there aren't enough seats, but never mind. Some lean against the wall; others sprawl on the floor. They sniff the air-the marijuana-laughing when Sarun explains, some of them openly, with a ha-ha, others guardedly, with a heh-heh. One of them covers his mouth, like a girl; none of them sits straight. Instead they relax and sprawl-engaging, Lee would say, in a little male splay display.

These gangs, Hattie knows, are not just social clubs. Sophy has told her how they steal computer chips out of video parlors; they deal drugs and steal cars, too, and now they're trafficking in bear parts. Sophy has told Hattie, what's more, about what's involved in getting jumped in-initiated-the beating up for guys, the serial s.e.x for girls. And how p.r.i.c.kly the gang members are-how easily disrespected. How quick to retaliate, how violent. Hattie knows all this. She knows that even their own Sarun has "wet" people before; Mum is right to be concerned.

Yet none of this is evident as the boys rib one another. Rainbow of browns that they are, they all appear to hail from Southeast Asia in some way-their differences, as best Hattie can tell, forming the basis of many jokes. It's hard to tell at first because of the way they talk: He's 'ite, she remembers, is "He's all right"; and Whaazup n.i.g.g.a? she gets just fine, too, unfortunately. It takes a while for her to realize, though, that Sowegit i'de caaw is "So we get in the car," and there's much she simply cannot catch. Still, she's picked up teen talk before; no one had a better ear for the cafeteria than she did, once upon a time. And so slowly now she begins to make out jokes about Siem Reap, for example-a Cambodian city whose name apparently means "Trample the Thais." She hears them call a Lao kid Lao Dang, which she is pretty sure is like calling him Khmer Rouge-a Communist. And everyone jokes constantly about the Vietnamese-the Youen-the one group explicitly excluded from this gang. Much else seems less worth deciphering.

Sarun, in any case, presides over all of this from his kitchen chair. His stiffness lends him a regal air, but he slurs his words with the best of them, ragging good-naturedly on different puak maak until, watching him, Mum begins to enjoy herself a little, too, it seems. As if it's nice to have company for a change, even this company. She does not abandon her post. However, she does shoo Hattie with some force out of the kitchen. Hattie protests, but when Mum brandishes a kitchen knife at her-treating her like family-Hattie surrenders, smiling.

She knocks on Sophy's half-open door; Sophy pulls forward her red bookmark.

"Don't stop," says Hattie. "What are you reading?"

"The Psalms." Sophy closes her Bible. She is sitting on the mattress, back against the wall-her knees pressed together, her bare feet splayed. No toenail polish today, but she's wearing lipstick and eyeliner, and a gold metallic headband with her T-shirt and jeans.

"Which one?" asks Hattie.

Sophy hesitates, but finally waggles her head, opens her book back up, and reads, " 'For I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me.' " She closes the book again.

"Psalm 109."

Sophy nods. Her face is a little pale, as if she is coming down with something; she does not seem bothered by the noise in the living room.

" 'I am gone like the shadow when it declineth; I am tossed up and down like the locust,' " recites Hattie.

Sophy opens the book back up, hunching her shoulders like a beginning reader. " 'As the locust,' " she says.

" 'As the locust,' thank you."

Sophy looks thoughtful then-as though she could ask Hattie something-but she picks her book back up instead. Her forefinger moves; she puzzles; she crosses and uncrosses her toes. Hattie watches for a moment, then plunks herself down on the mattress, too, leaning back against the opposite wall. She means to ask if that's okay, but the wall is warm with sun, and before she knows it, she is taking a nap.

A makeup-less Sophy comes to visit the next day; Hattie shows Annie off.

"Sit," she says.

Annie sits.

"Stay," she says.

Annie stays, sort of.

"Stay," Hattie says again, and-giving up-"Lie down."

Annie lies down, her tail sweeping back and forth as if the real command had been Sweep!

"She is, like, all grown up!" says Sophy, kneeling down to pet her; her hair glints almost silver in the sun. "Just like that!"

Hattie smiles. "Gu mu xing kan," she says.

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'You're rubbing your eyes to see someone!'-amazed as you are at her progress."

"Gua-?"

"Gu mu xing kan."

"Gu mu xing kan."

"Excellent!" Hattie claps but then says, "This may be the last dog I train."

"How come?"

"Oh, I don't know. I met someone the other day who doesn't train her dogs because she doesn't like how it distorts their personalities. She says she doesn't like how the dogs are always looking to their masters for cues, and I thought she had a point."

Sophy rubs noses with Annie, who bows, tail wagging, wanting to play. "Only you would ever say something like that," she says.

"That's not true. I'm just repeating what this other woman said. And I should add that some people think dogs like training-that they're bred for it and uncomfortable without it. So I don't know."

Still, Sophy insists, her eyes wide, "You know everything. You do."

And as Annie suddenly dashes off-a squirrel outside the window!-Sophy asks Hattie how to turn her father in. "Can we file a 51A on him? Do they have that here?"

Hattie makes her sit down. Pours some coffee; puts out some orange slices, not having any cookies.

"There is probably something along those lines," she answers, finally. "But are you sure you want to do that?"

"My dad wants us to."

"He wants you to turn him in?"

"He says he's an animal, and should be in a cage."

An animal who should be in a cage.

"And what does Sarun think?" Hattie cradles her coffee mug, trying to encourage Sophy to drink by example.

"Sarun was too mad to think anything before. But now he thinks it might make my dad feel better."

"And your mom?"

"She thinks he might kill himself otherwise."

"Is that what you think?"

Sophy blinks. "Maybe. His face is, like, so shattered."

Shattered.

"Does that matter here? With no other Cambodians around?"

"I don't know." Sophy does not even frown. "But if he kills himself, I'm going to kill myself, too."

"Don't say that."

Sophy stares. Where is Annie to rouse her?

"Don't even think that. Please. Look. I want to show you something." Hattie stands and takes one of the urns down from the bookshelf. Her mother. Sliding the plate of orange slices aside with her elbow, Hattie places it on the table. Then she turns and retrieves her father. Sophy frowns as Hattie explains; her lips part.

"Wow," she says, finally. "That is so wack."

"It is. It is wack. But this is what you're talking about, when you talk about killing yourself. This is what you will be. So please don't."

Sophy moves her head.

"It would be so wack of you. It would be-" Should Hattie bring up what Sophy's sisters would say? No. "It would be a terrible choice."

Sophy nods, her color rising.

"It's not as though this is all your fault. You made some bad choices, yes. But you had help, don't forget. And the person you hurt most is Ginny's husband. Sarun and your dad were hurt"-Hattie thinks-"incidentally."

"Do you think Everett will do something?"

"Press charges, you mean?"

Sophy nods again.

"I don't know."

"Would they definitely be against Sarun? Could they be against me?"

"I doubt they'd be against you."

"But could they be? Since I'm the one who set the fire?" Sophy lifts her chin.

"I suppose that could be arranged. But if you want to end up in a girls' group home, you can just go back to your old town and skip the trial, you know."

Sophy slumps. "Do you think it would make my dad feel better?"

"If you were charged and found guilty?"

She nods.

"No. I think it would make him feel worse. I think he would only blame himself even more if you were in trouble again. But you know him better than I do."

Sophy touches an urn. With just her fingertip, and just for a moment. Then her finger lifts up like a drawbridge.

"Honestly, I think"-Hattie improvises, the way she does with Josh-"I think it would be selfish of you to take all the blame, when only one part of it is yours."

Sophy reaches for her coffee as if just for a warmer ceramic surface.

"You did contribute, but it was your father, finally, who injured your brother."

"He had a choice," she says.

"He did. Yes. He's a damaged man who might not have understood his choices as well as he might have. But he had a choice."

"He reacted."

"Overreacted, we might say."

"If I had never gone to the church, none of this would have happened." Sophy leans back a little, resting her mug on her stomach; it rises and sinks with her breathing.

"True," says Hattie. "Although many people go to church without anything like this happening, either. You know how many people have kitchen knives, but only a few threaten others with them? Some people find that churchgoing increases what we used to call ren when I was little-our human-heartedness. But with other people, it seems to have the opposite effect. So I suppose it depends on the person, and on the church." She tries to be delicate. "On what the church teaches."

"And if I turn myself in or kill myself, that will just be what my dad calls a reaction."

"Is that what he calls it?"

Sophy nods after a fashion, balancing her mug with one hand so she can chew a hangnail on the other.

"As opposed to-?

"An action."

"I see. Yes. It will be a reaction. And wrong, do you see?" Hattie has an orange slice; she spits out the pit. "It will not help anything-it will just say how bad you felt. As if this is all about you. And who knows, it could well lead on to something else bad."

"One reaction after another."

"Exactly."

Sophy frowns. "But what would an action be?"

"How about apologizing to Everett?"

"How can I do that? I mean, I can't exactly, like, walk up to him."

"We'll find a way. How's your guitar these days? Is Carter still giving you lessons?"