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mother, Keita would run up the hill, and at the top he would jog back down. Up and down he would run, three, four or even five times, gasping and bawling and gasping and bawling, until he felt dry and empty and ready to lie down and sleep again.

CHAPTER THREE
    Y OYO OFTEN LEFT THE HOUSE AT NIGHT AND DID his interviews away from home, but Keita could not remember a time when his father was not grinding coffee beans in the mornings. He would talk to his espresso maker, spooning coffee into it and patting it down with the back of his spoon until he was ready to screw on the lid and heat the contraption. He had a name for his espresso maker: Wolverton. Come on, Wolverton, tell me a story today. What you got in there for me? Yoyo used a battery-powered grinder so as not to be hampered by blackouts. He took his coffee black, which Keita—who needed milk and sugar to make his palatable—could not fathom.
    Yoyo would sip his coffee on the porch while reading one of the dozen newspapers and magazines to which he subscribed. They arrived two weeks late in Zantoroland, but never mind—Yoyo devoured them anyway. Yoyo was frugal beyond belief—he would rejuvenate stale peanuts by re-salting them, sliding them onto a greased cookie sheet and broiling them in the oven—but newspaper and magazine subscriptions were his only indulgence.
    Yoyo sat in his rocking chair on the porch and greeted the schoolchildren passing in their uniforms and backpacks. The children were all barefoot, with shoes zipped into their bags. For greater longevity, shoes were worn only in the schoolyard.
    One day in April of 2009, however, Keita smelled no coffee. Yoyo was not in the kitchen or on the porch. Charity had alreadyleft the house, but that was typical. She clung to her routines. Each night before she went to bed, she assembled her lunch (one Granny Smith apple, a handful of almonds and ham-and-cheese on rye with mayonnaise, but never mustard), folded her school clothes and piled them on a chair, cleaned her shoes and put them at the door (Keita knew that the surest way to drive her crazy was to hide her shoes), and reviewed her schedule of classes, violin lessons and school newspaper meetings. She met a tutor early most mornings to keep her marks as close as possible to 100 percent. But on this day, she had left for an overnight field trip to a museum on the far side of Zantoroland.
    Keita, at fifteen, trained daily with a track club but barely kept any study schedule. What was the point of hitting the books when he had no possibility of matching his sister’s success? When his father or his sister inquired about his marks, Keita said that he would happily skip being an overanxious, overachieving A-plus student and opt instead to be a cool B student, a runner dreaming of the glory—and cars—that would accompany his Olympic victory.
    Keita slipped on his knapsack and tied his shoelaces. At an easy clip, it would only take him eight minutes to run to school. But it was 8:45 a.m. now and time to get going.
    “Papa,” he called.
    No answer.
    Keita was writing a note to his father, teasingly scolding him for being absent at breakfast, when someone knocked on his door. Three times. Politely, but firmly. In Zantoroland, three knocks meant official business. Keita opened the door. He looked down. It was a young boy, around ten years old. Years ago, when his homeland had been different, it might have been a neighbour child come to visit his father. But in recent years, the president had been known to use young messengers. Keita stepped back in alarm.
    “Sir,” the boy said. “Message about your father. You must report to the Ministry of Citizenship immediately.”
    “What has happened to him?”
    The boy shifted from his left foot to his right. “Don’t know, sir.”
    “Who is detaining him?”
    “Don’t know, sir, but you must bring a flatbed wagon.” The boy turned and ran.
    Keita did not have a flatbed wagon. In Yagwa, wagons were pulled by