“I don’t mean to, Ma. I was thinkin on something, was all it was.”

“You were thinking about something,” said his father.

Chris smiled, causing the muscles along his father’s jawline to tighten.

Chris Flynn was seated at a scarred wooden table in the Pine Ridge visiting room. Across the table were his parents, Thomas and Amanda Flynn. Nearby, several other boys, all wearing polo shirts and khakis, were being visited by their moms or grandmothers. A guard stood by the door. Outside the room, through a square of Plexiglas, Chris could see two other guards, talking to each other, laughing.

“How’s it going, honey?” said Amanda.

“It’s all right.”

“How’s school?”

Chris glanced around the room. “I go.”

“Look at your mother when she’s talking to you,” said Thomas Flynn.

Instead, Chris stared into his father’s watery eyes. He saw a husk of anger and hurt, and felt nothing.

“I’m asking you,” said Amanda, “are they treating you all right? Are people bullying you?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I know how to jail.”

“You,” said Flynn, his voice not much louder than a contemptuous whisper.

“Do you have one of those level meetings coming up?” said Amanda.

“Not that I know.”

“They’re supposed to have them monthly. I’ll follow up with our attorney. He’s in contact with the superintendent.”

“Fine.”

“Let’s pray,” said Amanda.

She laced her fingers together, rested her hands on the table, and bowed her head. Chris and Thomas Flynn dutifully did the same. But they did not speak to God, and their thoughts were not spiritual or pure.

When Amanda was done, the three of them got up out of their seats. Amanda looked at the guard, a big man with kind eyes who surely would understand, and she embraced her son. As she held him, she slipped three folded twenty-dollar bills into the pocket of his trousers.