hen I was four I found a caterpillar on my bedroom windowsill and decided to save its life. I made my mother take me to the library so that I could look it up in a Field guide. I punched pinholes in the top of a jar; I gave it grass and leaves and a tiny thimbleful of water. My mother said that if I didn't let the caterpillar go, it would die, but I was convinced I knew better. Out in the world, it could be run over by a truck. It could be scorched by the sun. My protection would stack the odds.

I changed its food and water religiously. I sang to it when the sun went down. And on the third day, in spite of my best intentions, that caterpillar died. Years later, it is happening all over again.

“No,” I tell Fisher. We have stopped walking; the cold January air is a cobra charmed up the folds of my coat. I thrust the paper back at him, as if holding my son's name out of sight might keep it from being on the witness list at all.

“Nina, it's not your decision,” he says gently. “Nathaniel's going to have to testify.”

“Quentin Brown's just doing this to get to me. He wants me to watch Nathaniel have a relapse in court so maybe I'll snap again, this time in front of a judge and a jury. Tears freeze on the tips of my eyelashes. I want it over, now. It was why I had murdered a man-because I thought that would stop this boulder from rolling on and on; because if the defendant was gone then my son would not have to sit on a witness stand and recount the worst thing that had ever happened to him. I wanted Nathaniel to be able to close this godawful chapter-and so, ironically, I didn't. But even this great sacrifice-of the priest's life, of my own future-has not done what it was supposed to.

Nathaniel and Caleb have kept their distance since Christmas, but every few days Caleb brings him to the house to spend a few hours with me. I don't know how Caleb has explained our living arrangements to Nathaniel. Maybe he says I am too sick to take care of a child, or too sad; and maybe either of these are true. One thing is certain-it is not in Nathaniel's best interests to watch me plan for my own punishment. There is already too much he's witnessed.

I know the name of the motel where they are staying, and sometimes, when I feel particularly courageous, I call. But Caleb always answers the phone, and either we have nothing to say to each other, or there are so many words clogging the wires between us that none of them fall forward. Nathaniel, though, is doing well. When he comes to the house, he is smiling. He sings songs for me that Miss Lydia has taught the class. He no longer jumps when you come up behind him and touch his shoulder.

All of this progress, and it will be erased at a competency hearing. In the park behind us, a toddler lies on his back making a snow angel. The problem with one of those is that you have to ruin it when you stand up. No m atter what, there is always a footprint binding you to the ground. “Fisher,” I say simply, “I'm going to jail.”

“You don't-”

“Fisher. Please.” I touch his arm. “I can handle that. I even believe that it's what I deserve, because of what I did. But I killed a man for one reason and one reason only-to keep Nathaniel from being hurt any more. I don't want him to think about what happened to him ever again. If Quentin wants to punish someone, he can punish me. But Nathaniel, he's off limits.” He sighs. “Nina, I'll do the best I can-”

“You don't understand,” I interrupt. “That's not good enough.” Because Judge Neal hails from Portland, he doesn't have chambers at the Alfred Superior Court, so he's been given another judge's lair to borrow for the duration of my trial. Judge Mclntyre, however, spends his free time hunting . To this end, the small room is decorated with the heads of moose and ten-point bucks, prey that has lost the battle. And me? I think. Will I be next?

Fisher has filed a motion, and the resulting meeting is being held in private chambers to prevent the media from getting involved. “Judge, this is so outrageous,” he says, “that I can't begin to express my absolute chagrin. The state has Father Szyszynski's death on videotape. What possible need do they have for this child to testify to anything?”

“Mr. Brown?” the judge prompts.

“Your Honor, the alleged rationale for the murder was the boy's psychiatric condition at the time, and the fact that the defendant believed her son had been the victim of molestation at the hands of Father Szyszynski. The state has learned that, in fact, this is not the truth. It's important that the jury get to hear what Nathaniel actually told his mother before she went out and killed this man.”

The judge shakes his head. “Mr. Carrington, it's going to be very difficult for me to quash a subpoena if the state alleges they can make it relevant. Now, once we're in trial, I may be able to rule that it's not relevant at all-but as it stands now, this witness's testimony goes to motive.” Fisher tries once again. “If the state will submit a written allegation of what they believe the child's testimony to be, maybe we can stipulate to it, so that Nathaniel doesn't have to take the stand.”

“Mr. Brown, that seems reasonable,” the judge says.

“I disagree. Having this witness, in the flesh, is critical to my case.” There is a moment of surprised silence. “Think twice, counselor,” Judge Neal urges.

“I have, Your Honor, believe me.”

Fisher looks at me, and I know exactly what he is about to do. His eyes are dark with sympathy, but he waits for me to nod before he turns to the judge again. “Judge, if the state is going to be this inflexible, then we need a competency hearing. We're talking about a child who's been rendered mute twice in the past six weeks.”

The judge will leap at this compromise, I know. I also know that of all the defense attorneys I've seen in action, Fisher is one of the most compassionate toward children during competency hearings. But he won't be, not this time. Because the best-case scenario, now, is to get the judge to declare Nathaniel not competent, so that he will not have to suffer through a whole trial. And the only way Fisher can do that is to actively try to make Nathaniel fall to pieces.

Fisher has kept it to himself, but his personal opinion is that art is beginning to imitate life. That is, his insanity defense for Nina-a complete fabric ation at first-is starting to hit quite close to the mark. To keep her from dissolving after the motions hearing this morning, he took her out to lunch in a swanky restaurant, a place where she was less likely to have a breakdown. He had her tell him all the questions the prosecutor would ask Nathaniel on the stand, questions she'd asked child witnesses a thousand times. The courthouse is dark now, empty except for the custodial staff, Caleb, Nathaniel, and Fisher. They move down the hall quietly, Nathaniel clutched in his father's arms.

“He's a little nervous,” Caleb says, clearing his throat. Fisher ignores the comment. He might as well be walking a tightrope ten thousand feet above the ground. The last thing he wants to do is deal harshly with the boy; but then again, if he's too solicitous, Nathaniel might feel comfortable enough at the hearing to be declared competent to stand trial. Either way, Nina will have his head.

Inside the court, Fisher switches on the overhead lights. They hiss, then flood the room with a garish brilliance. Nathaniel burrows closer to his father, his face pressed into the big man's shoulder. Where is a roll of Turns when you need it?

“Nathaniel,” Fisher says tersely, “I need you to go sit in that chair. Your father is going to be in the back. He can't say anything to you, and you can 't say anything to him. You just have to answer my questions. You understand?”

The boy's eyes are as wide as the night. He follows Fisher to the witness stand, then scrambles onto the stool that has been placed inside. “Get down for a second.” Fisher reaches inside and takes out the stool, replacing it with a low chair. Now, Nathaniel's brow does not even clear the lip of the witness stand.

“I ... I can't see anything,” Nathaniel whispers.

“You don't need to.”

Fisher is about to begin asking practice questions when a sound distracts him-Caleb, methodically gathering every high stool in the courtroom, corralling them near the double doors. “I thought maybe these might be ... better off somewhere else. So they're not around first thing in the morning.” He meets Fisher's gaze.

The attorney nods. “The closet. One of the janitors can lock them up.” When he turns back to the boy, he has to work to keep a smile off his face. Now Nathaniel knows why Mason always tries to pull out of his collar-this thing called a tie that doesn't have a bow in it at all is choking his neck. He tugs at it again, only to have his father grab his hand. There are flutters in his stomach, and he'd rather be at school. Here, everyone is going to be staring at him. Here, everyone wants him to talk about things he doesn't like to say.

Nathaniel clutches Franklin, his stuffed turtle, more tightly. The closed doors of the courtroom sigh open, and a man who looks like a policeman but isn't one waves them inside. Nathaniel moves hesitantly down the rolled red tongue of carpet. The room is not as spooky as it was last night in the dark, but he still has the feeling that he is walking into the belly of a whale. His heart begins to tap as fast as rain on a windshield, and he holds his hand up to his chest to keep everyone else from hearing, too.

His mommy is sitting in the front row. Her eyes are puffy, and before she sees him standing there she wipes them with her fingers. It makes Nathaniel think of all the other times she's pretended she isn't crying, says it with a smile, even though there are tears right on her cheeks.

There is a big man in the front of the room too, with skin the color of chestnuts. It is the same man who was in the supermarket; who made his mother get taken away. His mouth looks like it has been sewn shut.

The Lawyer sitting next to his mother gets up and walks toward Nathaniel. He does not like the Lawyer. Every time the Lawyer comes to his house, his parents have yelled at each other. And last night, when Nathaniel had been brought here to practice, the Lawyer was downright mean. Now, he puts his hand on Nathaniel's shoulder. “Nathaniel, I know you're worried about your mommy. I am, too. I want her to be happy again, but there is someone here who doesn't like your mommy. His name is Mr. Brown. Do you see him over there? The tall man?“ Nathaniel nods. ”He's going to ask you some questions. I can't stop him from doing that. But when you answer them, remember-I'm here to help your mommy. He isn't.“ Then he walks Nathaniel to the front of the courtroom. There are more people there than last night-a man wearing a black dress and holding a hammer; another person with hair that stands straight up on his head in little curls; a lady with a typewriter. His mom. And the big man who doesn't like her. They walk to the little fence-box where Nathaniel had to sit before. He crawls onto the chair that is too low, then folds his hands in his lap. The man in the black dress speaks. ”Can we get a higher seat for this child?“ Everyone starts looking left and right. The almost-policeman says what everyone else can see: ”There don't seem to be any around.”

“What do you mean? We always have extra stools for child witnesses.”

“Well, I could go to Judge Shea's courtroom to see if he has any, but there won't be anybody here to watch the defendant, Your Honor.” The man in the dress sighs, then hands Nathaniel a fat book. “Why don't you sit on my Bible, Nathaniel?”

He does, wiggling a little, because his bum keeps sliding off. The curly man walks up to him with a smile. “Hi, Nathaniel,” he says. Nathaniel doesn't know if he is supposed to talk yet.

“I need you to put your hand on the Bible for me.”

“But I'm sitting on it.”

The man takes out another Bible, and holds it in front of Nathaniel like a table. “Raise your right hand,” he says, and Nathaniel lifts one arm into the air. “Your other right hand,” the man corrects. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Nathaniel vehemently shakes his head.

“Is there a problem?” This from the man in the black dress.

“I'm not supposed to swear,” he whispers.

His mommy smiles, then, and hiccups out a laugh. Nathaniel thinks it is the prettiest sound he has ever heard.

“Nathaniel, I'm Judge Neal. I need you to answer some questions for me today. Do you think you can do that?”

He shrugs.

“Do you know what a promise is?” When Nathaniel nods, the judge points to the lady who is typing. “I need you to speak out, because that woman is writing down everything we say, and she has to hear you. You think you can talk nice and loud for her?”

Nathaniel leans forward. And at the top of his lungs, yells, “Yes!”

“Do you know what a promise is?”

“Yes!”

“Do you think you can promise to answer some questions today?”

“Yes!”

The judge leans back, wincing a little. "This is Mr. Brown, Nathaniel, and he's going to talk to you first."

Nathaniel looks at the big man, who stands up and smiles. He has white, white teeth. Like a wolf. He is nearly as tall as the ceiling and Nathaniel takes one look at him coming closer and thinks of him hurting his mother and then turning around and biting Nathaniel himself in two.

He takes a deep breath, and bursts into tears.

The man stops in his tracks, like he's lost his balance. “Go away!” Nathaniel shouts. He draws up his knees, and buries his face in them.

“Nathaniel.” Mr. Brown comes forward slowly, holding out his hand. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?”

Nathaniel shakes his head, but he won't look up. Maybe the big man has laser eyes too, like Cyclops from the X-Men. Maybe he can freeze them with one glance and with the next, make them burst into fire.

“What's your turtle's name?” the big man asks.

Nathaniel buries Franklin under his knees, so that he won't have to see the man either. He covers his face with his hands and peeks out, but the man has gotten even closer and this makes Nathaniel turn sideways in the chair, as if he might slip through the slats on the back side of it.

“Nathaniel,” the man tries again.

“No,” Nathaniel sobs. “I don't want to!”

The man turns away. “Judge. May we approach?”

Nathaniel peers over the lip of the box he is sitting in and sees his mother. She's crying too, but then that makes sense. The man wants to hurt her. She must be just as scared of him as Nathaniel is.

Fisher has told me not to cry, because I will get kicked out of the room. But I can't control myself-the tears come as naturally as a blush or a breath. Nathaniel burrows into the wooden chair, all but hidden by the frame of the witness stand. Fisher and Brown walk toward the bench, where the judge is angry enough to be spitting sparks. “Mr. Brown,” he says. “I can't believe you insisted on taking this so far. You know very well you didn't need this testimony, and I'm not going to allow psychological mind games to be played in my courtroom. Don't even think about making an argument to revisit this.”

“You're right, Judge,” answers that bastard. “I asked to approach because clearly this child should not have to testify.”

The judge raps his gavel. “This court rules that Nathaniel Frost is not competent to stand trial. The subpoena is quashed.” He turns to my son. “Nathaniel, you can go on down to your dad.”

Nathaniel bolts out of the chair and down the steps. I think he is going to run to Caleb, in the back of the courtroom-but instead he rushes straight to me. The force of his body sends my chair scooting back a few inches. Nathaniel wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing free the breath I have not even noticed I am holding.

I wait until Nathaniel glances up, terrified by the faces in this foreign world-the clerk, the judge, the stenographer, and the prosecutor. “Nathaniel,” I tell him fiercely, drawing his attention. “You were the best witness I could have had.”

Over his head, I catch Quentin Brown's eye. And smile.

When Patrick met Nathaniel Frost, the child was six months old. Patrick's first thought was that he looked just like Nina. His second thought was that, right here, in his arms, was the reason they would never be together. Patrick made an extra effort to get close to Nathaniel, even though sometimes it was painful enough to make him ache for days after a visit. He'd bring Weed little dolphins to float in the bathtub; Silly Putty; sparklers. For years Patrick had wanted to get under Nina's skin; Nathaniel, who'd grown below her heart, surely had something to teach him. So he tagged along on hikes, swapping off with Caleb to carry Nathaniel when his legs gott ired. He let Nathaniel spin in his desk chair at the station. He even babysat for a whole weekend, when Caleb and Nina went away for a relative's wedding.

And somewhere along the way, Patrick-who'd loved Nina forever-fell just as hard for her son.

The clock hasn't moved in two hours, Patrick would swear to that. Right now, Nathaniel is undergoing his competency hearing-a procedure Patrick couldn't watch, even if he wanted to. And he doesn't. Because Nina will be there too, and he hasn't seen or spoken to her since Christmas Eve. It's not that he doesn't want to. God, he can't seem to think of anything but Nina--the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her body relaxed against his in her sleep. But right now, the memory is crystallized for Patrick. Any words that come between them, aftershocks, are only going to take away from that. And it isn't what Nina would say to him that worries Patrick-it's what she wouldn't say. That she loves him, that she needs him, that this meant as much to her as it did to him.

He rests his head in his hands. Deep inside, there is a part of him that also knows this was a grave error. Patrick wants to get this off his chest, to confess his doubts to someone who would understand implicitly. But his confidante, his best friend, is Nina. If she cannot be that anymore . . . and she cannot be his . . . where does that leave them?

With a deep sigh he grabs the phone from his desk and dials an out-of-state number. He wants resolution, a present to give to Nina before he has to take the stand and testify against her. Farnsworth McGee, the police chief in Belle Chasse, Louisiana, answers on the third ring. “Hello?” he drawls, extending the word an extra syllable.

“It's Detective-Lieutenant Ducharme, from Biddeford, Maine,” Patrick says . “What's the latest on Gwynne?”

Patrick can easily envision the chief, with whom he'd met before leaving Belle Chasse. Overweight by a good fifty pounds, with a shock of Elvis-black hair. A fishing rod propped up in the corner behind his desk; a bumper sticker tacked to the bulletin board: HELL, YES, my neck's RED. “Y'all got to understand that we move carefully in our jurisdiction. Don't want no hasty mishaps, if you understand my meaning.”

Patrick grits his teeth. “Did you arrest him yet or not?”

“Your authorities are still talkin' to our authorities, Detective. Believe me, you'll be the first to know when something happens.”

He slams down the phone-angry at the idiot deputy, angry at Gwynne, angriest at himself for not taking matters into his own hands when he was in Louisiana. But he couldn't make himself forget that he was a law enforcement officer, that he was obligated to uphold certain rules. That Nina had said no, even if it was what she really wanted.

Patrick stares at the phone in its cradle. Then again, it is always possible to reinvent oneself. Particularly in the image of a hero.

He's seen Nina do it, after all.

After a moment, Patrick grabs his jacket and walks out of the station, intent on effecting change, rather than waiting for it to steamroll him. It has turned out to be the best day of my life. First, Nathaniel was ruled not competent. Then Caleb asked me to watch Nathaniel after the hearing, and overnight, because he is scheduled to do a job up near the Canadian border. “Do you mind?” he'd politely said, and I couldn't even form an answer, I was so delighted. I have visions of Nathaniel standing beside me in the kitchen while we cook his favorite dinner; I imagine watching his Shrek video twice in a row with a bowl of popcorn bridged between us.

But in the end, Nathaniel is exhausted from the events of the day. He falls asleep on the couch by six-thirty p.m. and doesn't wake when I carry him upstairs. In his bed, his hand unfurls on the pillow, as if he is offering me a hidden gift.

When Nathaniel was born, he waved tight fists in the air, as if he were angry at the world. They softened moment by moment, until I would nurse him and watch his fingers scrabble at my skin, clutching for purchase. I was mesmerized by that grasp, because of all its potential. Would Nathaniel grow up to wield a pencil or a gun? Would he heal with his touch? Create music? Would his palm be covered with calluses?

Ink? Sometimes I would separate the tiny fingers and trace the lines of his palm, as if I could truly read his future.

If Nathaniel had been difficult to conceive in the wake of my cyst surgery, he'd been a positively horrendous delivery. Thirty-six hours of labor rendered me trancelike. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed watching a Gilligan's Island marathon on the hospital TV, something that seemed equally as painful as my contractions. “We'll name her Ginger,” he vowed. “MaryAnn.” The vise inside me ratcheted tighter every hour, until agony became a black hole, each pain pulling in another. Over my head Gilligan voted for a chimp as beauty pageant queen, so that he wouldn't offend any of the stranded ladies. Caleb got behind me, propping up my back when I couldn't even find the energy to open my eyes. “I can't,” I whispered. “It's your turn.” So he rubbed my spine and he sang. “The weather started getting rough . . . the tiny ship was tossed . . . come on, Nina! If not for the courage of the fear less crew ...”

“Remind me,” I said, “to kill you later.” But I forgot, because minutes afterward Nathaniel was born. Caleb held him up, a being so small he curled like an inchworm in my husband's hands. Not a Ginger or a MaryAnn, but a Little Buddy. In fact, that was what we called him for three days, before we decided on a name. Caleb wanted me to choose, since he refused to take credit for work that was nearly all mine. So I picked Nathaniel Patrick Frost, to honor my deceased father, and my oldest friend.

Now, it is hard to believe that the boy sleeping in front of me was ever so tiny. I touch my hand to his hair, feel it slip through my fingers like time. I suffered once before, I think. And look at what I got in return. Quentin, who will cross a black cat's path without blinking and walk beneath ladders without breaking a sweat, is strangely superstitious about trials. On mornings that he's set to go to court, he gets fully dressed, eats breakfast, and then takes off his shirt and tie to shave. It's inefficient, of course, but it all goes back to his very first case, when he was so nervous he nearly walked out the door with a night's beard. Would have, too, if Tanya hadn't called him back in.

He rubs the shaving lather on his cheeks and jaw, then drags the razor the length of his face. He's not nervous today. In spite of the deluge of media that's sure to flood the court, Quentin knows he has a strong case. Hell, he's got the defendant committing the crime on videotape. Nothing she or Fisher Carrington do will be able to erase that action from the eyes of the jury. His first trial was a traffic ticket, which Quentin argued as if it were a capital murder. Tanya had brought Gideon; had been bouncing him on her hip in the back of the courtroom. Once he'd seen that, well, he had to put on a show.

“Damn!” Quentin jumps as he nicks his jaw. The shaving cream burns in the cut, and he scowls and presses a tissue to the spot. He has to hold it there for a couple of seconds until it clots, blood welling between his fingers. It makes him think of Nina Frost.

He wads up the tissue and sends it shooting across the bathroom, into the trash can. Quentin doesn't bother to watch his perfect shot. Quite simply, when you think you're incapable of missing, you don't.

This is what I have tried on so far: my black prosecutor's suit, the one that makes me look like Marcia Clark on a tear; the pale rose suit I wore to my cousin's wedding; the corduroy jumper Caleb got me one Christmas that still has the tags on it. I've tried slacks, but that's too mannish, and besides, I can't ever figure out whether you can wear loafers with slacks or if that comes off as too casual. I am angry at Fisher for not thinking of this-dressing me, the way defense attorneys dress prostitutes-in oversize clothes with ugly floral prints, garments handed down from the Salvation Army that never fail to make the women look slightly lost and impossibly young. I know what to wear so that a jury believes I'm in control. I have no idea how to dress helpless.

The clock on the nightstand is suddenly fifteen minutes later than it should be.

I pull on the jumper. It's nearly two sizes too big-have I changed that much? Or did I never bother to try it on in the first place? I hike it up to my waist and pull on a pair of stockings, only to notice that they have a run in the left leg. I grab a second pair-but they are ripped too.

“Not today,” I say under my breath, yanking open my underwear drawer, where I keep a reserve pair of stockings for emergencies. Panties and bras spill like foam over the sides of the bureau and onto my bare feet while I search for the plastic packet.

But I used that spare pantyhose the day I killed Glen Szyszynski, and since I haven't been working since then, never thought to replace them.

“Goddammit!” I kick the leg of the dresser, but that only hurts my toes and brings tears to my eyes. I toss out the remaining contents of the drawer, yank the whole thing from its slot in the bureau and throw it across the room. When my legs give out, I find myself sitting on the soft cloud of undergarments. I tuck my knees up under the skirt of my jumper, bury my face in my arms, and cry.

“Mommy was on TV last night,” Nathaniel says as they are driving to the courthouse in Caleb's truck. “When you were in the shower.” Lost in his own thoughts, Caleb nearly drives off the side of the road at this comment. “You weren't supposed to be watching TV.” Nathaniel hunches his shoulders, and immediately Caleb is sorry. So quickly, these days, he thinks he has done something wrong. “It's all right,” Caleb says. He forces his attention to the road. In ten minutes, he'll be at the superior court. He can give Nathaniel to Monica in the children's playroom; maybe she'll have some better answers.

Nathaniel, however, isn't finished yet. He chews the words in his mouth for a bit, then spits them out in one great rush. “How come Mommy yells at me when I pretend a stick is a gun but she was playing with one for real?” Caleb turns to find his son staring up at him, expecting explanations. He puts on his signal and pulls the truck onto the shoulder of the road. “Remember when you asked me why the sky was blue? And how we went to go look it up on the computer and there was so much science stuff there that neither of us could really understand it? Well, this is kind of the same thing. There's an answer, but it's really complicated.”

“The man on TV said what she did was wrong.” Nathaniel worries his bottom lip. “That's why today she's gonna get yelled at, right?” Oh, Christ, if only it could be that easy. Caleb smiles sadly. “Yeah. That's w hy.”

He waits for Nathaniel to speak again, and when he doesn't, Caleb pulls the truck back into the line of traffic. He drives three miles, and then Nathaniel turns to him. “Daddy? What's a martyr?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“The man, last night, on TV.”

Caleb takes a deep breath. “It means your mother loves you, more than anything. And that's why she did what she did.”

Nathaniel fingers the seam of his seat belt, considering. “Then why is it wrong?” he asks.

The parking lot is a sea of people: cameramen trying to get their reporters in their sights, producers adjusting the line feeds from their satellites, a group of militant Catholic women demanding Nina's judgment at the hands of the Lord. Patrick shoulders his way through the throngs, stunned to see national newscasters he recognizes by virtue of their celebrity.

An audible buzz sweeps the line of onlookers hovering around the courthouse steps. Then a car door slams, and suddenly Nina is hurrying up the stairs with Fisher's avuncular arm around her shoulders. A cheer goes up from the waiting crowd, along with an equally loud catcall of disapproval. Patrick pushes closer to the steps. “Nina!” he yells. “Nina!” He yanks his badge out, but brandishing it doesn't get him where he needs to be. “Nina!” Patrick shouts again.

She seems to stumble, to look around. But Fisher grabs her arm and directs her into the courthouse before Patrick has the chance to make himself heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Quentin Brown, and I'm an assistant attorney general for the state of Maine.” He smiles at the jury. “The reason you're all here today is because on October thirtieth, 2001, this woman, Nina Frost, got up and drove with her husband to the Biddeford District Court to watch a man being arraigned. But she left her husband waiting there while she went to Moe's Gun Shop in Sanford, Maine-where she paid four hundred dollars cash for a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun and twelve rounds of ammunition. She tucked these in her purse, got back in her car, and returned to the courthouse.” Quentin approaches the jury as if he has all the time in the world.

“Now, you all know, from coming in here today, that you had to pass through a security-screening device. But on October thirtieth, Nina Frost didn't. Why? Because she'd worked as a prosecutor for the past seven years. She knew the bailiff posted at the screening device. She walked by him without a backward glance, and she took that gun and the bullets she'd loaded into it, into a courtroom just like this one.”

He moves toward the defense table, coming up behind Nina to point a finger at the base of her skull. “A few minutes later she put that gun up to Father Glen Szyszynski's head and fired four rounds directly into his brain, killing him.”

Quentin surveys the jury; they are all staring at the defendant now, just like he wants. “Ladies and gentlemen, the facts in this case are crystal clear. In fact, WCSH News, which was covering that morning's arraignment, caught Ms. Frost's actions on tape. So the question for you will not be if she committed this crime. We know that she did. The question will be: Why should she be allowed to get away with it?”

He stares into the eyes of each juror in sequence. “She would like you to believe that the reason she should be held exempt from the law is because Father Szyszynski, her parish priest, had been charged with sexually molesting her five-year-old son. Yet she didn't even bother to make sure that this allegation was true. The state will show you scientifically, forensically, conclusively, that Father Szyszynski was not the man who abused her child . . . and still the defendant murdered him.”

Quentin turns his back on Nina Frost. “In Maine, if a person unlawfully kills someone with premeditation, she is guilty of murder. During this trial, the state will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that this is exactly what Nina Frost did. It doesn't matter if the person who is murdered was accused of a crime. It doesn't matter if the person who was murdered was murdered by mistake. If the person was murdered, period, there needs to be punishment exacted.” He looks to the jury box. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where you come in.”

Fisher only has eyes for that jury. He walks toward the box and meets each man's or woman's gaze, making a personal connection before he even speaks a word. It's what used to drive me crazy about him, when I faced him in a courtroom. He has this amazing ability to become everyone's confidante, no matter if the juror is a twenty-year-old single welfare mother or an e-commerce king with a million tucked into the stock market.

"What Mr. Brown just told you all is absolutely true. On the morning of October thirtieth, Nina Frost did buy a gun. She did drive to the courthouse. She did stand up and fire four bullets into the head of Father Szyszynski. What Mr. Brown would like you to believe is that there's nothing to this case beyond those facts . . . but we don't live in a world of facts. We live in a world of feelings. And what he's left out of his version of the story is what had been going on in Nina's head and heart that would lead her to such a moment.“ Fisher walks behind me, like Quentin did while he graphically showed the jury how to sneak up on a defendant and shoot him. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and it is comforting. ”For weeks, Nina Frost had been living a hell that no parent should have to live. She'd found out that her five-year-old son had been sexually abused. Worse, the police had identified the abuser as her own priest-a man she had confided in. Betrayed, heartbroken, and aching for her son, she began to lose her grasp on what was right and what was wrong. The only thing in her mind by the time she went to court that morning to see the priest arraigned was that she needed to protect her child.

“Nina Frost, of all people, knows how the system of justice works for-and fails-children. She, of all people, understands what the rules are in an American court of law, because for the past seven years she has measured up to them on a daily basis. But on October thirtieth, ladies and gentlemen, she wasn't a prosecutor. She was just Nathaniel's mother.” He comes to stand beside me. “Please listen to everything. And when you make your decision, don't make it only with your head. Make it with your heart.” Moe Baedeker, proprietor of Moe's Gun Shop, does not know what to do with his baseball cap. The bailiffs made him take it off, but his hair is matted and messy. He puts the cap on his lap and finger-combs his hair. In doing so, he catches sight of his nails, with grease and gun blueing caught beneath the cuticles, and he quickly sticks his hands beneath his thighs. “Ayuh, I recognize her,” he says, nodding at me. “She came into my store once. Walked right up to the counter and told me she wanted a semiautomatic handgun.”

“Had you ever seen her before?”

“Nope.”

“Did she look around the store at all?” Quentin asks.

“Nope. She was waiting in the parking lot when I opened, and then she came right up to the counter.” He shrugs. “I did an instant background check on her, and when she came out clean, I sold her what she wanted.”

“Did she ask for any bullets?”

“Twelve rounds.”

“Did you show the defendant how to use the gun?”

Moe shakes his head. “She told me she knew how.”

His testimony breaks over me like a wave. I can remember the smell of that little shop, the raw wood on the walls, and the pictures of Rugers and Glocks behind the counter. The way the cash register was old-fashioned and actually made a ching sound. He gave me my change in new twenty-dollar bills, holding each one up to the light and pointing out how you could tell whether they were counterfeit or not.

By the time I focus again, Fisher is doing the cross-exam. “What did she do while you were running the background check?”

“She kept looking at her watch. Pacing, like.”

“Was there anyone else in the store?”

“Nope.”

“Did she tell you why she needed a gun?”

“Ain't my place to ask,” Moe says.

One of the twenties he'd given me had been written on, a man's signature. “ I did that once,” Moe told me that morning. “And, swear to God, got the same bill back six years later.” He'd handed me my gun, hot in my hand. “What goes around comes around,” he'd said, and at the time, I was too self-absorbed to heed this as the warning it was.

The cameraman had been filming for WCSH and was set up in the corner, according to Quentin Brown's diagram of the Biddeford courtroom. As the videotape is slipped into a TV/VCR, I keep my eyes on the jury. I want to watch them watching me.

Once, maybe, I saw this segment. But it was months ago, when I believed I had done the right thing. The familiar voice of the judge draws my attention, and then I cannot help but stare at this small screen.

My hands shake when I hold up the gun. My eyes are wide and wild. But my motion is smooth and beautiful, a ballet. As I press the gun to the priest's head my own tilts backward, and for one stunning moment my face is split in to masques of comedy and tragedy-half grief, half relief.

The shot is so loud that even on tape, it makes me jump in my seat. Shouts. A cry. The cameraman's voice, saying, “Holy fucking shit!” Then the camera tilts on its axis and there are my feet, flying over the bar, and the thud of the bailiffs' bodies pinning me, and Patrick.

“Fisher,” I whisper. “I'm going to be sick.” The viewpoint shifts again, spinning to rest on its side on the floor. The priest's head lies in a spreading pool of blood. Half of it is missing, and the spots and flecks on the film suggest the spray of brain matter on the camera lens. One eye stares dully at me from the screep. “Did I get him?” My own voice. “Is he dead?”

“Fisher ...” The room revolves.

I feel him stand up beside me. “Your Honor, if I could request a short recess ...”

But there isn't time for that. I jump out of my seat and stumble through the gate at the bar, flying down the aisle of the courtroom with two bailiffs in pursuit. I make it through the double doors, then fall to my knees and vomit repeatedly, until the only thing left in my stomach is guilt.

“Frost Heaves,” I say minutes later, when I have cleaned myself up and Fisher has whisked me to a private conference room away from the eyes of the press. “That'll be tomorrow's headline.”

He steeples his fingers. “You know, I've got to tell you, that was good. Amazing, really.”

I glance at him. “You think I threw up on purpose?”

“Didn't you?”

“My God.” Turning away, I stare out the window. If anything, the crowd outside has grown. “Fisher, did you see that tape? How could any juror acquit me after that?”

Fisher is quiet for a moment. “Nina, what were you thinking when you were watching it?”

“Thinking? Who had time to think, with all the visual cues? I mean, that's an unbelievable amount of blood. And the brains-”

“What were you thinking about yourself?”

I shake my head, close my eyes, but there are no words for what I've done. Fisher pats my arm. “That,” he says, “is why they'll acquit you.” In the lobby, where he is sequestered as an upcoming witness, Patrick tries to keep his mind off Nina and her trial. He's done a crossword puzzle in a paper left on the seat beside him; he's had enough cups of coffee to raise his pulse a few notches; he's talked to other cops coming in and out. But it's all pointless; Nina runs through his blood.

When she staggered from the courtroom, her hand clapped over her mouth, Patrick had risen out of his chair. He was already halfway across the lobby, trying to make sure she was all right, when Caleb burst out of the double doors on the heels of the bailiffs.

So Patrick sat back down.

On his hip, his beeper begins to vibrate. Patrick pulls it off his belt and glances at the number on the screen. Finally, he thinks, and he goes to find a pay phone.

When it is time for lunch, Caleb gets sandwiches from a nearby deli and brings them back to the conference room where I am ensconced. “I can't eat,” I say, as he hands me one wrapped sub. I expect him to tell me that I have to, but instead Caleb just shrugs and lets the sandwich sit in front of me. From the corner of my eye I watch him chew his food in silence. He has already conceded this war; he no longer even cares enough to fight me. There is a rattle of the locked door, followed by an insistent banging. Caleb scowls, then gets up to tell whoever it is to go away. But when he opens it a crack, Patrick is standing on the other side. The door falls open, and the two men stand uneasily facing each other, a seam of energy crackling between them that keeps them from getting too close.

I realize at that moment that although I have many photographs of Patrick and many photographs of Caleb, I haven't got a single one of all three of us-as if, in that combination, it is impossible to fit so much emotion in the frame of the camera.

“Nina,” he says, coming inside. “I have to talk to you.” Not now, I think, going cold. Surely Patrick has enough sense to not bring up what happened in front of my husband. Or maybe that is exactly what he wants to do.

“Father Gwynne's dead.” Patrick hands me a faxed Nexus article. “I got a call from the Belle Chasse police chief. I got tired of working on Southern time a few days ago, and I put a little pressure on the authorities . . . anyway, it seems that by the time they went to arrest him, he'd died.” My face is frozen. “Who did it?” I whisper.

“No one. It was a stroke.”

Patrick keeps talking, his words falling like hailstones onto the paper I'm trying to read. “... took the damn chief two whole days to get around to calling me ...”

Father Gwynne, a beloved local chaplain, was found dead in his living quarters by his housekeeper.

“. . . apparently, he had a family history of cardiovascular disease . . .”

“He looked so peaceful, you know, in his easy chair,” said Margaret Mary Seurat, who had worked for the priest for the past five years. “Like he'd just fallen asleep after finishing his cup of cocoa.”

“... and get this: They said his cat died of a broken heart ...” In a strange, connected twist, Gwynne's cherished pet, a cat well known to his parishioners, died shortly after authorities arrived. To those who knew the Father, this was no surprise: “She loved him too much,” Seurat suggested.

“We all did.”

“It's over, Nina.”

Archbishop Schulte will lead a funeral Mass at Our Lady of Mercy, Wednesday morning at 9:00 A.M.

“He's dead.” I test the truth on my tongue. “He's dead.” Maybe there is a God, then; maybe there are cosmic wheels of justice. Maybe this is what retribution is supposed to feel like. “Caleb,” I say, turning. Everything else passes between us without a single word: that Nathaniel is safe, now; that there will be no sexual abuse trial for him to testify at; that the villain in this drama will never hurt someone else's little boy; that after my verdict, this nightmare will truly be finished.

His face has gone just as white as mine. “I heard.” In the middle of this tiny conference room, with two hours of damning testimony behind me, I feel an unmitigated joy. And in that instant it does not matter what has been missing between Caleb and myself. Much more important is this triumph of news, and it's something to share. I throw my arms around my husband.

Who does not embrace me in return.

Heat floods my cheeks. When I manage to lift my gaze with some shred of dignity, Caleb is staring at Patrick, who has turned his back. “Well,” Patrick says, without looking at me. “I thought you'd want to know.” Bailiffs are human fire hydrants: They're placed in the court in case of an emergency but fade into the landscape otherwise and are rarely put to practical use. Like most bailiffs of my acquaintance, Bobby Ianucci isn't too athletic or too bright. And like most bailiffs, Bobby understands he is lower on the feeding chain than the attorneys in the courtroom-which accounts for his absolute intimidation at the hands of Quentin Brown.

“Who was in the courtroom when you brought Father Szyszynski in from the holding cell?” the prosecutor asks, a few minutes into the testimony. Bobby has to think about this, and the effort is visible on his doughy face . “Uh, well, the judge, yeah. On the bench. And there was a clerk, and a stenographer, and the dead guy's lawyer, whose name I don't remember. And a DA from Portland.”

“Where were Mr. and Mrs. Frost sitting?” Quentin asks.

“In the front row with Detective Ducharme.”

“What happened next?”

Bobby straightens his shoulders. “Me and Roanoke, that's the other bailiff, we walked the Father across the room to his lawyer. Then, you know, I stepped back, because he had to sit down, so I stood behind him.” He takes a deep breath. “And then ...”

“Yes, Mr. Ianucci?”

“Well, I don't know where she came from. I don't know how she did it. But the next thing, there's gunshots being fired and blood all over the place, and Father Szyszynski's falling out of his chair.”

“What happened after that?”

“I tackled her. And so did Roanoke, and a couple of other guys posted at the back of the courtroom, and Detective Ducharme, too. She dropped the gun and I grabbed it, and then Detective Ducharme, he hauled her up and took her off to the holding cell in cuffs.”

“Did you get shot, Mr. Ianucci?”

Bobby shakes his head, lost in his memories. “No. But if I'd been, like, five inches to the right, she could have hit me.”

“So would you say the defendant was very careful with how she aimed that weapon at Father Szyszynski?”

Fisher stands beside me. “Objection.”

“Sustained,” Judge Neal rules.

The prosecutor shrugs. “Withdrawn. Your witness.”

As he returns to his seat, Fisher approaches the bailiff. “Did you talk to Nina Frost the morning before the shooting?”

“No.”

“In fact, you were busy doing your job-maintaining the security of the courthouse, and dealing with prisoners-so you had no need to watch Mrs. Frost, did you?”

“No.”

“Did you see her pull the gun out?”

“No.”

“You said several bailiffs immediately jumped on her. Did you have to fight Mrs. Frost for the gun?”

“No.”

“And she didn't struggle with any of you when you tried to subdue her?”

“She was trying to see around us. She kept asking if he was dead.” Fisher dismisses this with a shrug. “But she wasn't trying to get away from you. She wasn't trying to hurt you.”

“Oh, no.”

Fisher lets that answer hang for a moment. “You knew Mrs. Frost before this, didn't you, Mr. Ianucci?”

“Sure.”

“What was your relationship with her like?”

Bobby glances at me; then his eyes skitter away. “Well, she's a DA. She comes in all the time.” He pauses, then adds. “She's one of the nice ones.”

“Had you ever considered her to be violent before?”

“No.”

“In fact, on that morning, she seemed nothing like the Nina Frost you knew, isn't that right?”

“Well, you know, she looked the same.”

“But her actions, Mr. Ianucci . . . had you ever seen Mrs. Frost act like this before?”

The bailiff shakes his head. “I never saw her shoot nobody, if that's what you mean.”

“It is,” Fisher says, sitting down. “Nothing further.” That afternoon when court is adjourned, I don't go directly home. Risking an extra fifteen minutes' grace before my electronic bracelet is reactivated, I drive to St. Anne's and enter the church where this all began. The nave is open to the public, although I don't think they've found a replacement chaplain yet. Inside, it's dark. My shoes strike the tile, announce my presence.

To my right is a table where white votives burn in tiers. Taking a stick, I light one for Glen Szyszynski. I light a second one for Arthur Gwynne. Then I slip into a pew and get down on the kneeler. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” I whisper, praying to a woman who stood by her son, too. The lights in the motel room go out at eight, Nathaniel's bedtime. Beside his son, on a matching twin bed, Caleb lies with his hands folded behind his head, waiting for Nathaniel to fall asleep. Then, sometimes, Caleb will watch TV. Turn on one lamp and read the day's paper.

Today he wants to do neither. He is in no mood to hear local pundits guessing Nina's fate based on the first day of testimony. Hell, he doesn't want to guess, himself.

One thing is clear: The woman all those witnesses saw; the woman on that videotape-she isn't the woman Caleb married. And when your wife is not th e same person you fell in love with eight years ago, where exactly does t hat leave you? Do you try to get to know who she has become, and hope for the best? Or do you keep deceiving yourself in the hope that she might w ake up one morning and have gone back to the woman she used to be?

Maybe, Caleb thinks with a small shock, he isn't the same person he once was, either.

That brings him directly to the topic he didn't want to remember, especially not now in the dark with nothing to distract him. This afternoon, when Patrick had come to the conference room to bring them the news of Gwynne's death . . . well, Caleb must be reading into things. After all, Nina and Patrick have known each other a lifetime. And although the guy is something of an albatross, his relationship with Nina has never really bothered Caleb, because when push came to shove he was the one sleeping with Nina every night.

But Caleb has not been sleeping with Nina.

He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this might block out the memory of Patrick turning away abruptly when Nina put her arms around Caleb. That, in and of itself, wasn't disturbing-Caleb could list a hundred times that Nina touched him or smiled at him in the other man's presence that unsettled Patrick in some way . . . even if Nina never seemed to see. In fact, there have been times Caleb's even felt sorry for Patrick, for the blatant jealousy on his face the moment before he masks it.

Today, though, it wasn't envy in Patrick's eyes. It was grief. And that is why Caleb cannot pull away from the incident; cannot stop picking the moment apart like a carrion vulture going for the bone. Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours.

But grief comes from losing something you've already had.

Nathaniel hates this stupid playroom with its stupid book corner and its stupid bald dolls and its stupid crayon box that doesn't even have a yellow. He hates the way the tables smell like a hospital and the floor is cold under his socks. He hates Monica, whose smile reminds Nathaniel of the time he took an orange wedge at the Chinese restaurant and stuffed it into his mouth, rind out, in a silly, fake grin. Most of all he hates knowing that his mom and dad are just twenty-two stairs up but Nathaniel isn't allowed to join them.

“Nathaniel,” Monica says, “why don't we finish this tower?” It is made of blocks; they built it all afternoon yesterday and put a special sign on overnight, asking the janitors to leave it until this morning. “How high do you think we can go?”

It is already taller than Nathaniel; Monica has brought over a chair so that he can keep building. She has a small stack of blocks ready to go.

“Be careful,” she warns as he climbs onto the chair. He places the first block at the top, and the whole structure wobbles. The second time, it seems certain to fall over-and then doesn't. “That was close,” Monica says.

He imagines that this is New York City, and he is a giant. A Tyrannosaurus rex. Or King Kong. He eats buildings this big like they are carrot sticks. With a great swipe of his enormous paw, Nathaniel swings at the top of the tower.

It falls in a great, clattering heap.

Monica looks so sad that for just the slightest moment, Nathaniel feels awful. “Oh,” she sighs. “Why'd you do that?”

Satisfaction curls the corners of his mouth, blooming from a root inside. But Nathaniel doesn't tell her what he's thinking: Because I could. Joseph Toro looks nervous to be in a courtroom, and I can't blame him. The last time I saw the man he was cowering beside the bench, covered with his own client's blood and brain matter.

“Had you met with Glen Szyszynski before you came to court that day?” Quentin asks.

“Yes,” the attorney says timidly. “In jail, pending the arraignment.”

“What did he say about the alleged crime?”

“He categorically denied it.”

“Objection,” Fisher calls out. “Relevance?”

“Sustained.”

Quentin reconsiders. “What was Father Szyszynski's demeanor the morning of October thirtieth?”

“Objection.” Fisher stands this time. “Same grounds.” Judge Neal looks at the witness. “I'd like to hear this.”

“He was scared to death,” Toro murmurs. “He was resigned. Praying. He read to me aloud, from the book of Matthew. The part where Christ keeps saying 'My God, why bast thou forsaken me?'”

“What happened when they brought your client in?” Quentin asks.

“They walked him to the defense table where I was sitting.”

“And where was Mrs. Frost at the time?”

“Sitting behind us, and to the left.”

“Had you spoken with Mrs. Frost that morning?”

“No,” Toro answers. “I'd never even met her.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about her?”

“Objection,” Fisher says. “He didn't know her, so how could he judge what was and wasn't customary?”

“Overruled,” the judge answers.

Toro looks at me, a bird gathering courage to dart a glance at the cat sittin g a few feet away. “There was something unusual. I was waiting for her to come in ... because she was the mother of the alleged victim, of course . . . but she was late. Her husband was there, waiting . . . but Mrs. Frost almost missed the beginning of the arraignment. I thought of all days, it seemed very strange that on this one, she wouldn't be on time.”

I listen to his testimony, but I am watching Quentin Brown. To a prosecutor, a defendant is nothing but a victory or a loss. They are not real people; they do not have lives that interest you beyond the crime that brought them into court. As I stare at him, Brown suddenly turns. His expression is cool, dispassionate-one I have cultivated in my repertoire as well. In fact I have had all the same training as him, but there is a gulf between us. This case is only his job, after all. But it is my future.

The Alfred courthouse is old, and the bathrooms are no exception. Caleb finishes up at the long trough of the urinal just as someone comes to stand beside him. He averts his eyes as the other man unzips, then steps back to wash his hands, and realizes it is Patrick.

When Patrick turns, he does a double-take. “Caleb?” The bathroom is empty, save the two of them. Caleb folds his arms, waits for Patrick to soap his hands and dry them with a paper towel. He is waiting, and he doesn't know why. He just understands that at this moment, he can't leave yet, either.

“How is she today?” Patrick asks.

Caleb finds that he cannot answer, cannot force a single word out.

“It must be hell for her, sitting in there.”

“I know.” Caleb forces himself to look directly at Patrick, to make him understand this is not a casual reply, is not even a sequitur. “I know,” he repeats. Patrick looks away, swallows. “Did she . . . did she tell you?”

“She didn't have to.”

The only sound is the rush of water in the long urinal. "You want to hit me ?“ Patrick says after a moment. He splays his arms wide. ”Go ahead. Hit me."

Slowly, Caleb shakes his head. “I want to. I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much. But I'm not going to, because it's too fucking sad.” He takes a step toward Patrick, pointing his finger at the other man's chest. “You moved back here to be near Nina. You've lived your whole life for a woman who doesn't live hers for you. You waited until she was skating over a weak spot, and then you made sure you were the first thing she could grab onto.” He turns away. “I don't have to hit you, Patrick. You're already pathetic.” Caleb walks toward the bathroom door but is stopped by Patrick's voice. “Nina used to write me every other day. I was overseas, in the service, and that was the only thing I looked forward to.” He smiles faintly. “She told me when she met you. Told me where you took her on dates. But the time she told me that she'd climbed some mountain with you . . . that was when I knew I'd lost her.”

“Mount Katahdin? Nothing happened that day.”

“No. You just climbed it, and came down,” Patrick says. “Thing is, Nina's terrified of heights. She gets so sick, sometimes, that she faints. But she loved you so much, she was willing to follow you anywhere. Even three thousand feet up.” He pushes away from the wall, approaching Caleb. “You know what's pathetic? That you get to live with this . . . this goddess. That out of all the guys in the world, she picked you. You were handed this incredible gift, and you don't even know it's in front of you.”

Then Patrick pushes past Caleb, knocking him against the wall. He needs to get out of that bathroom, before he is foolish enough to reveal the whole of his heart.

Frankie Martine is a prosecutor's witness-that is to say, she answers questions clearly and concisely, making science accessible to even the high school dropout on a jury. Quentin spends nearly an hour walking her through the mechanics of bone marrow transplants, and she manages to keep the jury's interest. Then she segues into the mechanics of her day job-spinning out DNA. I once spent three days at the state lab with Frankie, in fact, getting her to show me how she does it. I wanted to know, so that I'd fully grasp the results that were sent to me.

Apparently, I didn't learn enough.

“Your DNA is the same in every cell in your body,” Frankie explains. “That means if you take a blood sample from someone, the DNA in those blood cells will match the DNA in their skin cells, tissue cells, and bodily fluids like saliva and semen. That's why Mr. Brown asked me to take DNA from Father Szyszynski's blood sample and use it to see if it matched the DNA found in the semen on the underpants.”

“And did you do that?” Quentin asks.

“Yes, I did.”

He hands Frankie the lab report-the original one, which was left anonymously in my mailbox. “What were your findings?”

Unlike some of the other witnesses the prosecutor's put on the stand, Frankie meets my eye. I don't read sympathy there, but I don't read disgust either. Then again, this is a woman who is faced daily with the forensic proof of what people are capable of doing to others in the name of love. “I determined that the chance of randomly selecting an unrelated individual from the population other than the suspect, whose DNA matched the semen DNA at all the locations we tested, was one in six billion.”

Quentin looks at the jury. “Six billion? Isn't that the approximate population of the whole earth?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, what does all this have to do with bone marrow?” Frankie shifts on her seat. “After I'd issued these results, the attorney general's office asked me to research the findings in light of Father Szyszynski's medical records. Seven years ago, he'd had a bone marrow transplant, which means, basically, that his blood was on long-term loan . . . borrowed from a donor. It also means that the DNA we got from that blood-the DNA that was typed to match the semen in the underwear-was not Father Szyszynski's DNA, but rather his donor's.“ She looks at the jury, making sure they are nodding before she continues. ”If we'd taken saliva from Father Szyszynski, or semen, or even skin-anything but his blood-it would have excluded him as a donor to the semen stain in the child's underwear.“ Quentin lets this sink in. ”Wait a second. You're telling me that if someone has a bone marrow transplant, they've got two different types of DNA in their body?”

“Exactly. It's extremely rare, which is why it's the exception and not the rule, and why DNA testing is still the most accurate kind of evidentiary proof.” Frankie takes out another lab report, an updated one. “As you can see here, it's possible to test someone who's had a bone marrow transplant to prov e that they've got two different profiles of DNA. We extract tooth pulp, which contains both tissue and blood cells. If someone's had a bone marrow transplant, those tissue cells should show one profile of DNA, and the blood cells should show another.”

“Is that what you found when you extracted tooth pulp from Father Szyszynski?”

“Yes.”

Quentin shakes his head, feigning amazement. “So I guess Father Szyszynski was the one person in six billion whose DNA might match the DNA found in the underwear . . . but who wouldn't have been the one to leave it there?”

Frankie folds the report and slips it into her case file. “That's right,” she says.

“You've worked with Nina Frost on a few cases, haven't you?” Fisher asks moments later.

“Yes,” Frankie replies. “I have.”

“She's pretty thorough, isn't she?”

“Yes. She's one of the DAs who calls all the time, checking up on the results we fax in. She's even come to the lab. A lot of the prosecutors don't bother, but Nina really wanted to make sure she understood. She likes to follow through from beginning to end.”

Fisher slants a look my way. Tell me about it. But he says, “It's very important for her to make sure that she has the facts straight, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“She isn't someone who'd jump to a conclusion, or rely on something she was told without double-checking it?”

“Not that I've seen,” Frankie admits.

“When you issue your lab reports, Ms. Martine, you expect them to be accurate, don't you?”

“Of course.”

“You issued a report, in fact, that said the chances of somebody other than Father Szyszynski contributing this semen to Nathaniel Frost's underwear were less than one in the population of the whole earth?”

“Yes.”

"You never put anything in that report qualifying your results in the case that the suspect was a bone marrow transplant recipient, did you? Because that's such a rare event that even you, as a scientist, would never assume it?"

“Statistics are statistics ... an estimation.”

“But when you handed that initial report to the DA's office, you were prepared to ask the prosecutor to rely on it?”

“Yes.”

“You were prepared to ask a jury of twelve people to rely on it as evidence to convict Father Szyszynski?”

“Yes,” Frankie says.

“You were prepared to ask the judge to rely on it when he sentenced Father Szyszynski?”

“Yes.”

“And you were prepared to ask Nina Frost, the child's mother, to rely on it for closure and peace of mind?”

“Yes.”

Fisher turns to the witness. “Then is it any wonder in your mind, Ms. Martine, that she did?”

“Of course Quentin objected,” Fisher says, his mouth full of pepperoni pizza.

“That's not the point. The point is that I didn't withdraw the question before I dismissed the witness. The jury's going to notice that nuance.”

“You are giving far too much credit to a jury,” I argue. “I'm not saying the cross wasn't fantastic, Fisher, it was. But . . . watch it, you're going to get sauce on your tie.”

He looks down, then flips the tie over his shoulder and laughs. “You're a riot, Nina. At what point during this trial do you think you might actually start to root for the defense?”

Never, I think. Maybe it is easier for Fisher, a defense attorney, to come up with rationalizations for why people do the things they do. After all, when you have to stand up next to felons on a daily basis and fight for their freedom, you either convince yourself they had some excuse for committing a crime ... or you tell yourself this is nothing but a job, and if you lie on their behalf it's all in the name of billable hours. After seven years as a prosecutor, the world looks very black and white. Granted, it was easy enough to persuade myself that I was morally righteous when I believed I'd killed a child molester. But to be absolved of murdering a man who was blameless-well, even Johnnie Cochran must have nightmares every now and then.

“Fisher?” I ask quietly. “Do you think I ought to be punished?” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “Would I be here if I did?”

“For what you're making, you'd probably stand in the middle of a gladiator's ring.”

Smiling, he meets my eye. “Nina, relax. I will get you acquitted.” But I shouldn't be. The truth lies at the base of my stomach, even though I can't say it aloud. What good is the legal process if people can decide their motives are bigger than the law? If you remove one brick from the foundation, how long before the whole system tumbles down?

Maybe I can be pardoned for wanting to protect my child, but there are plenty of parents who shelter their children without committing felonies. I can tell myself that I was only thinking of my son that day; that I was only acting like a good mother . . . but the truth is, I wasn't. I was acting like a prosecutor, one who didn't trust the court process when it became personally relevant. One who knew better than to do what I did. Which is exactly why I deserve to be convicted.

“If I can't even forgive myself,” I say finally, “how are twelve other people going to do it?”

The door opens and Caleb enters. Suddenly the atmosphere is plucked tight as a bowstring. Fisher glances at me-he knows that Caleb and I have been estranged, lately-and then balls his napkin up and tosses it into the box. "Caleb! There's a couple slices left.“ He stands up. ”I'm going to go take care .. . of that thing we were talking about," Fisher says vacuously, and he gets out of the room while he can.

Caleb sits across from me. The clock on the wall, fast by five minutes, ticks as loud as my heart. “Hungry?” I ask.

He traces the sharp corner of the pizza box. “I'm starving,” Caleb answers. But he makes no move to take one of the slices. Instead, we both watch as his fingers creep forward, as he clasps my hand between both of his. He scoots his chair closer and bows his head until it touches our joined fists. "Let's start over," he murmurs.

If I have gained anything over these months, it is the knowledge there is no starting over-only living with the mistakes you've made. But then, Caleb taught me long ago you can't build anything without some sort of foundation. Maybe we learn to live our lives by understanding, firsthand, how not to live them.

“Let's just pick up where we left off,” I reply, and I rest my cheek on the crown of Caleb's head.

How far can a person go ... and still live with himself?

It's something that's been haunting Patrick. There are certain acts for which you easily make excuses-killing during wartime; stealing food if you're starving; lying to save your own life. But narrow the circumstances, bring them closer to home-and suddenly, the faith of a man who's dedicated his life to morality gets seriously shaken. Patrick doesn't blame Nina for shooting Glen Szyszynski, because at that moment she truly believed it was her only option. Likewise, he doesn't consider making love with her on Christmas Eve to be wrong. He'd waited for Nina for years; when she finally was his-even for a night-the fact of her marriage to another man was inconsequential. Who was to say that the bond between Patrick and Nina was any less strong because there was no piece of paper sanctifying it?

Justification is a remarkable thing-takes all those solid lines and blurs them, so that honor becomes as supple as a willow, and ethics burst like soap bubbles.

If Nina chose to leave Caleb, Patrick would be at her side in an instant, and he could come up with a multitude of reasons to defend his behavior. Truth be told, it's something he's let himself consider in the soft gray moments before sleep comes. Hope is his balm for reality; if Patrick spreads it thick enough, sometimes he can even envision a life with her.

But then, there's Nathaniel.

And that's the point Patrick cannot get past. He can rationalize falling in love with Nina; he can even rationalize her falling in love with him. There's nothing he would like more than to see Caleb gone from her life. But Caleb is not just Nina's husband ... he is also the father of her son. And Patrick co uld not bear knowing that he was responsible for ruining Nathaniel's childhood. If Patrick did that after all that has happened, well . . . how could she ever love him?

Compared to a transgression of that size, what he is about to do seems insignificant.

He watches Quentin Brown from the witness box. The prosecutor is expecting this to go easily-just as easily as it did during the practice session. After all, Patrick is a law enforcement official, used to testifying. As far as Brown knows, despite his friendship with Nina, he's on the side of the prosecution. “Were you assigned to work the Nathaniel Frost case?” Quentin asks.

“Yes.”

“How did the defendant react to your investigation of the case?” Patrick can't look at Nina, not yet. He doesn't want to give himself away. “ She was an incredibly concerned parent.”

This is not the answer they have rehearsed. Patrick watches Quentin do a double-take, then feed him the response he was supposed to give. “Did you ever see her lose her temper during the case?”

“At times she'd become distraught. Her child wasn't speaking. She didn't know what to do.” Patrick shrugs. “Who wouldn't get frustrated in a situation like that?”

Quentin sends him a quelling glance. Commentary on the stand is not necessary, or desired. “Who was your first suspect in the molestation case?”

“We didn't have a suspect until Glen Szyszynski.”

By now, Quentin looks ready to throttle him. “Did you bring in another man for questioning?”

“Yes. Caleb Frost.”

“Why did you bring him in?”

Patrick shakes his head. “The child was using sign language to communicate, and he ID'd his abuser with the sign for father. At the time, we didn't understand he meant priest, rather than daddy.” He looks directly at Caleb, in the front row behind Nina. “That was my mistake,” Patrick says.

“What was the defendant's reaction to her son signing father?” Fisher rises from his seat, poised to object, but Patrick speaks quickly. “She took it very seriously. Her primary concern was always, always, protecting her child.” Confused, the attorney sits back down beside Nina.

“Detective Ducharme-” the prosecutor interrupts.

“I'm not quite done yet, Mr. Brown. I was going to say that I'm sure it tore her up inside, but she got a restraining order against her husband, because she thought it was the best way to keep Nathaniel safe.”

Quentin walks closer to Patrick, hisses through his teeth so that only his witness will hear. “What the hell are you doing?” Then he faces the jury. “Detective, at what point did you make the decision to arrest Father Szyszynski?”

“After Nathaniel gave a verbal disclosure, I went down to talk to him.”

“Did you arrest him at that moment?”

“No. I was hoping he'd confess first. We always hope for that in molestation cases.”

“Did Father Szyszynski ever admit to sexually abusing Nathaniel Frost?” Patrick has been a witness at enough trials to know that the question is blatantly unacceptable, because it calls for hearsay. The judge and the prosecutor both stare at Fisher Carrington, waiting for him to object. But by now, Nina's lawyer has caught on. He sits at the defense table with his hands steepled, watching this unfold. "Child molesters almost never admit they've hurt a child," Patrick says, filling the silence. ”They know jail's not going to be a pleasant place for them. And frankly, without a confession, a molestation trial is a roll of the dice. Nearly half the time, these guys get off because of insufficient evidence or because the child is too terrified to testify, or because they do testify and the jury doesn't believe the word of a kid ...“ Quentin breaks in before Patrick can do any further damage. ”Your Honor, may we have a recess?"

The judge looks over his bifocals at him. “We are in the middle of the direct.”

“Yes, Judge, I'm aware of that.”

Shrugging, Neal turns to Fisher. “Does the defense object to stopping at this point?”

“I don't believe so, Your Honor. But I would ask the Court to remind all counsel that the witnesses have been sequestered and can't be approached during the break.”

“Fine,” Quentin grits out. He storms from the courtroom so quickly he doesn't see Patrick finally make eye contact with Nina, smile gently at her, and wink.

“Why is this cop working for us?” Fisher demands, as soon as he's bustled me into a private conference room upstairs.

“Because he's my friend. He's always been there for me.” At least, that is the only explanation I can give. I knew, of course, that Patrick would have to testify against me, and I didn't take it to heart. Part of what makes Patrick is his absolute devotion to the clear line dividing right and wrong. It is why he would not let me talk to him about the murder; it is why he has wrestled so hard to stand by my side while I was awaiting trial. It is why his offer to find Father Gwynne on my behalf meant so very much to me, and was so difficult for him.

It is why, when I think back to Christmas Eve, I cannot believe it ever happened.

Fisher seems to be considering this odd gift that has dropped into his lap. “ Is there anything I should watch out for? Anything he won't do to protect you?”

The reason we slept together isn't because Patrick tossed morality to the wind that night. It's because he was too damn honest to convince himself the feelings weren't there.

“He won't lie,” I answer.

Quentin returns on the attack. Whatever game this detective's playing, it's going to stop right now. “Why were you in court the morning of October thirtieth?”

“It was my case,” Ducharme answers coolly.

“Did you speak to the defendant that morning?”

“Yes. I spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Frost. They were both very nervous. We discussed who they could leave Nathaniel with during the proceedings, because naturally, they were very wary of putting him into anyone's care at that point.”

“What did you do when the defendant shot Father Szyszynski?” Ducharme meets the prosecutor's gaze head on. “I saw a gun, and I went for it.”

“Did you know Mrs. Frost had a gun before that point?”

“No.”

“How many officers did it take to wrestle her to the ground?”

“She dropped to the ground,” the detective corrects. “Four bailiffs dropped on top of her.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I asked for cuffs. Deputy Ianucci gave me a pair. I secured Mrs. Frost's hands behind her back and took her into the holding cell.”

“How long were you in there with her?”

“Four hours.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

In the practice session, Ducharme had told Quentin that the defendant confessed to him that she'd committed a crime. But now, he puts on a choirboy's expression and looks at the jury. “She kept repeating over and over, 'I did everything I could; I can't do any more.' She sounded crazy.” Crazy? “Objection,” Quentin roars.

“Your Honor, it's his own witness!” Fisher says.

“Overruled, Mr. Brown.”

“Approach!” Quentin storms up to the bench. “Judge, I'm going to ask to have this witness declared hostile, so that I can ask leading questions.” Judge Neal looks at Ducharme, then back at the prosecutor. “Counselor, he is answering your questions.”

“Not the way he's supposed to be!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. But that's your problem.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, turning away. The real issue here isn't that Patrick Ducharme is single-handedly destroying this case. The issue is why. Either Ducharme is holding a grudge against Quentin, whom he does not even really know ... or he's trying to help Nina Frost for some reason. He glances up, and notices the detective and the defendant staring at each other, a bond so charged that Quentin imagines walking through it might give him a shock.

Well.

“How long have you known the defendant?” he asks evenly.

“Thirty years.”

“That long?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe your relationship with her?”

“We work together.”

My ass, Quentin thinks. I'd bet my retirement pension you play together, too . “Do you ever see her outside the office in a nonprofessional capacity?” It might not be noticeable to someone watching less closely than Quentin . . . but Patrick Ducharme's jaw tightens. “I know her family. We have lunch together every now and then.”

“How did you feel when you heard this had happened to Nathaniel?”

“Objection,” Carrington calls out.

The judge rubs a finger over his upper lip. “I'll allow it.”

“I was concerned for the boy,” the detective answers.

“How about Nina Frost? Were you concerned for her?”

“Of course. She's a colleague.”

“Is that all?” Quentin accuses.

He is prepared for Ducharme's reaction-a face bleached completely of color. An added bonus: the way Nina Frost looks as if she's been molded of stone. Bingo, Quentin thinks.

“Objection!”

“Overruled,” the judge says, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

“We've been friends for a long time.” Ducharme picks through a minefield of words. “I knew Nina was upset, and I did what I could to make it easier.”

“Such as ... help her kill the priest?”

Nina Frost shoots out of her seat at the defense table. “Objection!” Her attorney shoves her back down. Patrick Ducharme looks ready to kill Quentin, which is fine by him, now that the jury thinks it's possible the detective could have been an accessory to one murder already. “How long have you been a policeman?”

“Three years.”

“And before that, you were a detective in the military police?”

“Yes, for five years.”

Quentin nods. “As an investigator and a detective and a police officer in both the United States military and the Biddeford Police Department, how often have you testified?”

“Dozens of times.”

“You are aware that as a witness, you're under oath, Detective.”

“Of course.”

“You've told the court today that during the four hours you spent in a holding cell with the defendant, she sounded crazy.”

“That's right.”

Quentin looks at him. “The day after Father Szyszynski was murdered, you and Detective Chao came in to talk to me at the district attorney's office. Do you remember what you told me then about the defendant's state of mind?”

There is a long stalemate. Finally Ducharme turns away. “I said she knew exactly what she was doing, and that if it was my son, I'd have done the same thing.”

“So . . . your opinion the day after the shooting was that Nina Frost was perfectly sane. And your opinion today is that she was crazy. Which one is it, Detective . . . and what on earth did she do between then and now to make you change your mind?” Quentin asks, and he sinks into his chair and smiles. Fisher is playing the insider with the jury, but I can barely even follow his words. Watching Patrick on the stand has turned me inside out. “You know,” Fisher begins, “I think Mr. Brown was trying to imply something about your relationship with Mrs. Frost that isn't accurate, and I'd like to have a chance to make clear to the jury what is true. You and Nina were close friends as children, isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“And like all children, you probably told a fib every now and then?”

“I suppose so,” Patrick says.

“But that's a far cry from perjury, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Like all children, you two hatched plots and schemes and maybe even carried through with them?”

“Sure.”

Fisher spreads his hands. "But that's a far cry from planning a murder, right?"

“Absolutely.”

“And as children, you two were particularly close. Even now, you're particularly close. But that's all you two are-friends. Correct?” Patrick looks directly at me. “Of course,” he says. The state rests. Me, I'm too keyed up for that. I pace the confines of the small conference room where I have been left alone-Caleb is checking on Nathaniel, and Fisher has left to call his office. I am standing by the window-something Fisher's told me not to do, because photographers down there have some super telephoto lenses they're using-when the door cracks and the sound from the hallway oozes inside. “How is he?” I ask without turning around, assuming Caleb has returned.

“Tired,” Patrick answers, “but I figure I'll bounce back.” I whirl around and walk to him, but now there is a wall between us, one only he and I can see. Patrick's eyes, that beautiful blue, are swimming with shadows.

I state the obvious. “You lied about us. On the stand.”

“Did I?” He comes closer, and it hurts. To have so little space between us, and to know I cannot erase it entirely.

We are only friends. It's all we're ever going to be. We can wonder, we can pretend otherwise for a single evening, but that is not the measure of a life together. There is no way to know what might have happened if I hadn't met Caleb; if Patrick hadn't gone overseas. But I've made a world with Caleb. I can't cut out that piece of myself, any more than I can carve away the part of my heart that belongs to Patrick.

I love them both; I always will. But this isn't about me.

“I didn't lie, Nina. I did the right thing.” Patrick's hand comes up to my face, and I turn my cheek into his palm.

I will be leaving him. I will be leaving everyone.

“The right thing,” I repeat, “is thinking before I act, so that I stop hurting the people I love.”

“Your family,” he murmurs.

I shake my head. “No,” I say, my good-bye. “I meant you.” After court is dismissed, Quentin goes to a bar. But he doesn't particularly feel like drinking, so he gets into his car and drives aimlessly. He goes to a Wal-Mart and buys $104.35 of items he does not need; he stops at a McDonald 's for dinner. It isn't until two hours later that he realizes he has somewhere he needs to be.

It is dark by the time he pulls up to Tanya's house, and he has trouble getting the passenger out of the car. It wasn't as difficult as you'd imagine to find a plastic skeleton; the Halloween merchandise at the costume store was discounted sixty percent, heaped into an untidy corner.

He hauls the skeleton up the driveway like a buddy who's drunk too much, phalanges dragging on the gravel, and he uses one long bony finger to push in the doorbell. A few moments later, Tanya answers the door. She's still wearing her scrubs, and her braids are pulled back into a ponytail . “Okay,” she says, looking at Quentin and the skeleton. “I've got to hear this.”

He shifts position, so that he can hold the skull and let the rest dangle, freeing up one hand. Quentin points to the shoulder. “Scapula,” he recites. “Is chium, ilium. Maxilla, mandible, fibula, cuboid.” He has labeled each of these on the appropriate bone, with a black permanent marker.

Tanya starts to close the door. “You've lost it, Quentin.”

“No!” He wedges the wrist of the skeleton inside. “Don't.” Taking a deep breath, Quentin says, “I bought this for you. I wanted to show you . . . that I didn't forget what you taught me.”

She tilts her head. God, he used to love the way she did that. And how she'd massage her own neck when the muscles got sore. He looks at this woman, who he does not know at all any longer, and thinks she looks just the way home should.

Tanya's fingers slip over the bones he could not recall, wide white ribs and parts of the knee and ankle. Then she reaches for Quentin's arm, and smiles.

“You got a lot left to learn,” she replies, and she tugs him inside. That night I dream that I am in court, sitting next to Fisher, when the hair stands up on the back of my neck. The air gets heavier, harder to breathe, and behind me whispers run like mice on the hardscrabble floor. “All rise,” the clerk says, and I'm about to, but then there is the cold click of a gun against my scalp, the surge and stream of a bullet in my brain, and I am falling; I am falling.

The sound wakes me. Unmistakable, a celebration of clangs and clatter in ringing tin. Raccoons, but in January?

In my flannel pajamas I tiptoe downstairs. Stuff my bare feet into boots, my arms into a parka. Just in case, I grab the fireplace poker, and then I slip outside.

The cover of snow masks my footsteps as I walk the few feet to the garage. As I get closer, the huddled black shape is too large to be a raccoon. The head is bent into the trash. It isn't until I smack the poker against the can like a gong that the man even lifts his head, dizzy and ringing.

He is dressed like a cat burglar, and my first, too-charitable thought is that he must be freezing. His hands, covered in rubber gloves, are slick with the contents of my refuse. Like condoms, I think-he does not want to catch any dread disease, and who knows what you can contract by looking at the detritus of someone's life?

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

A war plays across his face. Then he takes a tape recorder out of his pocket. “Would you be willing to give me a statement?”

“You're a reporter? You're going through my trash, and you're a reporter?” I advance on him. “What did you think you would find? What else could you possibly need to say about my life?”

Now I notice how young he is: Nathaniel, give or take fifteen years. He is shaking, and I don't know if it is the temperature out here, or the fact that he has come face-to-face with someone as evil as me. “Do your readers want to know that I had my period last week? That I finished a box of Honey Nut Cheerios? That I get too much junk mail?”

I grab the tape recorder and punch the record button. "You want a statement?

I'll give you a statement. You ask your readers if they can account for every minute of their lives, every thought in their heads, and be proud of it. You ask them if they've never jaywalked . . . never gone thirty-one miles per hour in a thirty-mile zone ... if they've never sped up when they saw that yellow light. And when you find that single, sorry person who hasn't taken a misstep, that one person with the right to judge me, you te ll him he's just as human as I am. That tomorrow, his world could turn upside down and he might find himself capable of actions he'd never believed possible.“ I turn away, my voice breaking. ”You tell him ... he could have been me."

Then I take the tape recorder and throw it as hard and far as I can, into a high drift of snow. I walk inside and lock the door behind me, lean against it, and catch my breath.

Nothing I do will bring back Father Szyszynski. But nothing I do will ever wipe from my mind the error I've made. No jail sentence can punish me more than I will punish myself, or turn back time, or keep me from thinking that Arthur Gwynne deserved to die as much as his half-brother didn't. I have been moving in slow motion, waiting for an inevitable ax to fall, listening to testimony as if these witnesses are discussing the destiny of a stranger. But now, I feel myself waking. The future may unfold in indelible strokes, but it doesn't mean we have to read the same line over and over. That's exactly the fate I didn't want for Nathaniel ... so why should I want it for me?

Snow starts to fall, like a blessing.

I want my life back.

The bird looked like a tiny dinosaur, too small to have feathers or know how to open its eyes. It was on the ground next to a stick shaped like a V, and a yellow-hatted acorn. Its mouth folded back, a hinge, and one stub of a wing flopped. I could see the outline of its heart.

“It's okay.” I got down on the ground so I wouldn't be so scary. But it just lay there on its side, its belly swelled like a balloon.

When I looked up, I could see its brothers and sisters in the nest. With one finger I pushed it onto my hand. “Mom!”

“What's the matter? Oh, Nathaniel!” She made that click with her tongue and grabbed my wrist, pushing it back to the ground. “Don't pick it up!”

“But . . . but . . .” Anyone could see how sick it was. You were supposed to help people who were too sick or sad to take care of themselves; Father Glen said so all the time. So why not birds, too?

“Once a human touches the baby, its mother doesn't want it anymore.” And just like she said, the big robin came out of the sky and hopped right past the baby. “Now you know better,” she said.

I kept staring at the bird. I wondered if it would stay there next to the V stick and the acorn until it died. I covered it with a big leaf, so that it would stay warm. “If I was a bird and someone touched me, would I die?”

“If you were a bird,” she said, “I never would have let you fall out of the nest.”