They would wait for him every day at dismissal, hiding behind the Batey School’s perimeter wall, until Segundo would appear through the gates, one able body in a procession of helmets, wheelchairs, and boxy walkers, all reflecting sunlight. 

I'd lit a match and given it to someone else to hold. What surprised me in that moment was that there were no signs I would lie, nor any that Latha would respond so strongly. It was December 28th. An odd number. A seven. It should have been a lovely day, like all odd days were, and it almost had been. I dragged my feet as we returned to my grandfather’s house in the darkness and drizzle.

Quinn vaults over the sill of his bedroom window onto the patio roof. His feet trigger a heart-stopping cascade of pebbles. He crouches, scuttles, lowers himself from the roof’s lip into empty air. His arms shake and a sour scum of fear coats his tongue. 

Jahan arrives as footsteps, the sound of worn leather chappals slapping against the wood floors of the corridor to his study. This is new. Usually, he is shadowed against his trees or his now-empty bee house.