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counter.
    “Okay, Mark,” he said. “It’s a drugs-and-violence story, mostly. He was pretty destructive. He liked to hang out with people he shouldn’t have. Bad judgment, you know? Then finally, a couple of years ago, he punched his hand through the door at a counselor’s office and got arrested, and everything went downhill from there.”
    I remembered the kids I had seen at Lorning, staring at nothing in their plastic chairs. “Are most of the people on the psych ward—you know…”
    “No. Are they what?”
    “Violent like that. With a lot of problems. And messed up on drugs.”
    Jimmy poured powdered chocolate into the glasses, then added milk and club soda.
    “I don’t mean anything against your brother,” I said. “But Dora wouldn’t punch a hole in a door, and she’s not destructive. She’s just—” I remembered my parents’ word. “
Down.
It’s a totally different situation.”
    “Yeah.” Jimmy held a glass toward me. His eyes were gray blue, the color of a lake. “Everyone’s different. Taste this,” he said.
    I took a sip of the fizzy chocolate (it wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad, either) and tried to get used to the idea that I was actually having a conversation with Jimmy Zenk—Jimmy who had played in the sewer drains when we were little, Jimmy who wore black clothes every day of the week, who sat at the back of the bus with the local druggies, and who went to school but didn’t own a backpack or carry any books. Inside my own backpack, the pencils and pens were in separate compartments, and the notebooks were organized according to color. “Did you fail ninth grade?” I asked.
    “Some of it.”
    “So that’s why you’re taking ninth-grade history?”
    “I’m making up for a couple of classes here and there. And I like Mr. Clearwater. He and I have an understanding.” Jimmy drained his glass and carried it to the sink and washed it. “The problem with Lorning is that they like to lock people up,” he said. “You probably haven’t seen them, but they have these little isolation rooms. They’re like padded cells.”
    I remembered Dora being locked away.
    “That probably won’t happen to your sister.” Jimmy ran his hand along the stubbly path in his hair again. “But there are better places you could send her.”
    “She’s not going to be there long,” I said.
    Jimmy shrugged. “Okay. But if your parents want some names of other places, let me know. My mom’s got a whole list. She hated the doctors that worked at Lorning. Especially a guy named Siebald. Dr. Siebald is nuts.”
    I stood up. “My parents know what they’re doing,” I said. “But thanks for the soda.”
    “Sure. Whatever.” Jimmy followed me to the door. “Here’s my phone number.” He gave me a white card with his name printed in red in the middle. J . ZENK , it said, with a number below.
    “Why do you have business cards?” I asked. “Are you dealing drugs?”
    “No. Do you think everyone who has a business card is dealing drugs?”
    I stuffed the card in my pocket and picked up my backpack. “Just because your brother hated Lorning doesn’t mean it’s a terrible place.”
    “It wasn’t only my brother,” Jimmy said.
    “Okay, and your mom. But—no offense—what would your mother know about hospitals?”
    Jimmy opened the door. “My mom’s a psychiatrist,” he said.

16

    We weren’t allowed to see Dora on Monday, but on Tuesday before dinner we talked to her on the phone—using all three extensions—for several minutes.
    “How was your day, Rabbit?” my father asked. Rabbit was one of the nicknames he had invented for Dora when she was little.
    “It sucked,” Dora said. Her voice sounded thick, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of syrup. “Hang on a second.”
    “What’s the matter?” my mother asked.
    I could hear someone swearing.
    “Somebody’s flipping out in the hall behind me,” Dora said. “A couple of the kids in here—they’re certifiable.