I visited H. R.’s house, though maybe I was being summoned. His parents were there—though his mom died many years ago. She took me aside and reproached me of something. H. had been accused of killing a Native American in the woods some time ago. She reminded me how she’d contacted my family and me by fax because we were in possession of some information that might exonerate him. We never replied, and she was still furious. At first I said, “Mary, that was a long time ago,” trying to end the discussion. She persisted, and I realized with dread that she was right—my family—I—was always irresponsible about these kinds of things. H. had done his time, apparently, and never recovered, never got his life on track.