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know you didn’t fall. Who did this to you?”
    â€œI fell,” I said. “It was an accident.”
    â€œJenny,” my mother said, “what happened to your brother?” I looked at my sister and tried to tell her with my eyes, full of tears or not, that if she said anything I would hurt her, I would make her life miserable.
    â€œI don’t know exactly,” she said, looking down in her lap.
    â€œJenny,” my mother said.
    Jenny looked up. “Why don’t we believe in God?” she asked.
    There was a silence in the car. “Because we would rather not believe something just to make ourselves feel better about the world,” my father said. “Because we’re not afraid of the truth. Because what we have is what we see in front of us, and that’s good enough.” We had heard our father’s lectures on this subject before whenever we asked this question. He had always felt strongly about his atheism. He seemed to feel that he—and his family—were stronger because of it.
    My mother turned around and looked at Jenny. “Why are you asking?”
    â€œBecause that’s what the boys who hurt Steven wanted to know.”
    â€œShut up!” I yelled, even though my lungs felt as if they would shatter. “Shut the fuck up.” I wanted to kick her, but I didn’t have the strength.
    â€œThey were Mormons,” my sister continued, having decided to betray me completely. “Kids from our neighborhood. Kids who live up the hill.”
    â€œShut up!” I was crying out loud now and hated her for reducing me to sobs.
    â€œDid you hear that, Billy?” my mother said. “The Mormon kids. Those little brats. When we’re done at the hospital, I’m going to find them. I’m going to go to their houses.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” I said.
    â€œDamned if I’m not. Look at what they did to you.”
    â€œPlease don’t,” I said. I looked up at the rearview mirror where I met my father’s eyes and thought I saw that he understood me, that he knew that his son could not become a snitch.
    â€œNo one’s going over to anyone’s houses,” he said. “Let’s just get to the hospital. We’ll think about the rest later.”
    My mother turned back around in her seat. “We’ll see,” she said under her breath. I knew then that my father would do what he could for me. We were all quiet again, and I hoped it would stay that way until we arrived at the hospital, though finally Jenny sighed. “I wish we went to church like everybody else in this city. I wish we believed in God.” She was writing her initials over and over again in the steamed glass of her window.
    â€œWe believe in ourselves, Jen,” my father said enthusiastically. “We’re not afraid of the fact that we have no one and nothing else to rely on. People don’t get anywhere thinking that something out there is going to make life better. You think that way”—he cleared his throat—“and you never have to look at yourself and see who’s really running your life.”
    Jenny didn’t answer him. None of us did except for my mother, who laughed bitterly at his remark.
    â€œI’m not joking, Mary,” he said. I could tell by the way he leaned into the steering wheel that he was irritated and maybe even hurt. “Please stop writing on the window, Jenny,” he said. “That makes a mess. And who do you think has to clean it up?”
    â€œOkay,” she said, and stopped.
    *   *   *
    The hospital was called The Richmond Clinics, a huge, newly constructed building with white siding and hundreds of large windows that emanated a bronze light in the dark snowfall. “Don’t let him slip,” my mother said as we walked through the snow-covered parking lot. I could stand up straighter now, though I found that hunching over