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they let me in. I said I was Devon. We have four Devons in my class. In what used to be my class.”
    Rose had to admit that her daughter was clever. Too clever. That kind of cleverness could get them caught.
    “You really should grow up,” Rose told her. “All that fuss over a child’s birthday. Did you write on the note where we’re living? Did you draw her a map?”
    “It’s none of your business what I wrote, but I’ll tell you. I wrote, ‘Happy birthday to the best friend ever, love, Hazel.’”
    I should have remembered her friend’s stupid birthday, Rose thought. I could have thought of something safe for Hazel to do.
    “It looked like they were doing cool stuff in science,” Hazel said. “About the insides of animals and how all the parts work together. And there was an arithmetic problem on the board that I don’t know how to do.”
    “Be quiet now, and let me rest.”
    “School started only two months ago,” Hazel said, “and already I’m falling behind.”
    “I said, be quiet. Can’t you see I’m in pain?”
    Hazel kept talking. “I could go to a different school, and use a different name.”
    “No, you couldn’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you have to have files. You have to have papers. You have to have come from somewhere. Now, do I have to ask you again to let me have some quiet?”
    Rose had her quiet, almost a full minute of it.
    Then Hazel spoke again. Quietly. Almost under her breath. “You don’t know everything. You can’t even walk right now. I can do what I want to, and you can’t stop me.”
    Rose kept her eyes shut and her mouth closed and did not rise to the bait.
    “I’m supposed to be in school,” Hazel muttered. “It’s the law.”
    “Shut up,” said Rose.
    “It’s like I’m being punished,” said Hazel. “I don’t see why I should be punished.”
    She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “After all, I wasn’t the one who killed Daddy.”

Chapter Seven

    Neither Rose nor Hazel had spoken about that awful night since it happened.
    Rose had hoped — prayed — that Hazel had been asleep. At first, she’d been puzzled that Hazel hadn’t asked about her father. Four months had gone by, and not a mention. Now, that made sense. Hazel knew her father was dead.
    “It was an accident,” Rose said.
    Hazel turned around on the floor until her back was to her mother.
    “Honey, it was an accident,” Rose said again. “I didn’t mean to.”
    Hazel didn’t reply.
    Now she decides to keep quiet, Rose thought. “I don’t know what you think you saw.”
    “What I saw ,” said Hazel.
    “I’m sorry that you saw anything.”
    It had been a bad night. No worse than other nights, except at the end.
    He had been drinking, of course, and he was angry about something. He was always angry about something, and Rose couldn’t remember now what had set him off on that last night. Was it something she’d said? Was it something she’d failed to say? Something wrong with the food at supper?
    He had a talent for finding things wrong. And she never did anything as simple as make a mistake. Shoes not lined up meant she was not respecting him. Agreeing with the prime minister when her husband disagreed meant she was being disloyal. Not laughing at something her husband thought was funny meant she was cold. Laughing at a male comedian’s joke meant she wanted to sleep with that comic. Laughing at a female comedian’s joke meant she was a man-hating bitch. She needed to have the attitude beaten out of her.
    There was no way to win. Silence was safest. Silence and agreement. She’d learned to watch his face for clues and to listen hard to his tone of voice. Sometimes she was able to head off his anger. But if he was in a hitting sort of mood, nothing would stop him.
    The beating wasn’t the worst part. The beating came at the end, the final burst of bad energy at the end of a bad night. He’d hit, he’d kick, he’d throw things, he’d slam her head against