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Where does it happen? I said.

I don’t know. At school, we think.

And the teachers?

They don’t do anything.

Nothing? I thought they were big on PC stuff nowadays, teaching tolerance for people who are different.

Veronica rolled her eyes. She said, They talked to the kid we think is the ringleader, Harley Douglas. They talked to his parents. But nobody actually saw anything, and Emerson won’t say that Harley hit him, though he’s the one who picks on him the most. The principal promised to investigate.

I felt the heat in my face; my cousin did not come over much anymore, and now I knew what had brought her today. Emerson had a metabolic disorder that impaired his balance, sensitivity, and muscle strength, and caused developmental delays.

Emerson can’t really even talk, I told her.

He can, she said with slight annoyance; she shoved her clenched hands into my windbreaker pockets. Just not well. He claims he’s been falling on the playground.

And you’re sure he’s not?

Yesterday someone sliced his leg braces. Here, look.

She pulled them out of her backpack. The braces, a contraption of plastic parts held together by joints and straps, had been cut clean.

Motherfuckers, I said.

Tomas.

What did the parents say?

They didn’t believe us. Said we were making false accusations against their son. Then Manny went over to confront the guy, after he noticed Emerson’s slit braces. The father’s a soccer-dad from hell. Goes to all the school games. Eggs his kid on to commit fouls, yells at the other parents. The jerk beat up Manny in front of Emerson and Harley. He looks terrible. Needed twenty stitches.

Did he file an assault report?

She shook her head.

It might make them take you more seriously.

He thinks he can handle it by himself. But he can’t, she said, then shrugged and turned away.

I clicked my tongue and shook my head. You shouldn’t of sent Manny. Confrontation isn’t his thing.

I didn’t send him, he went over himself, she said. Veronica seemed irritated, crossed her arms and glanced away.

Wait here, I said.

Where are you going?

I need to get something from the house.

She yelled after me what was I doing, but I kept on thumping up the paint-flaking front steps. I slammed through the door and swept through the hall like a sudden gust. I moved into the back where my brother and girlfriend and their daughter lived, my brother who refuses to talk to me, blames me for having been a bad influence when we were teens. I rifled through his closet and drawers, looking, and I thought about Emerson, who until last year had used a walker to get around. He was growing stunted for his age, with his trunk becoming shorter in proportion to his legs. Veronica and Manny were in denial. They spoke as if his cheerful laugh wasn’t a reflection of mild mental retardation, as if his slurred speech could really only be due to limp muscles in his neck and body. As if he’d someday win sports, avoid teasing, charm girls into giving him female companionship.

Tomas, what are you doing? my mother said.

She stood in Gabe’s doorway; her hair was messy, she had probably been napping.

Nothing.

What are you looking for? she said. Gabe will be home from work soon.

You want to help me look?

She hesitated. For what?

Never mind, I said. I found it in the bedside table, took the icepick out, and palmed it, felt the weight of the wooden handle, the thinness of its blade. It looked like an enormous hypodermic needle.

She blocked the doorway.

Tomas, you said you wouldn’t! she said. You’re on probation. You said you were finished with that life. My mother grimaced; she had suffered through my days of adolescent rage, my anger at being a halfie.

I went to the rear window, slid it open sideways, popped out the flimsy screen. I started to step through, but then paused and turned to her.

It’s not about my old life, I told her. I’m not going back.

You said.

It’s about Veronica’s child.

She had begun crying but stopped now. She furrowed her forehead as she looked at me. Veronica was like a daughter