In the morning we walked to the church I had chosen, a Methodist church. It had the double advantage of being close to my house and of not having any members who worked at the college. Just maybe no one would recognize me, though the wish was a stretch, given how many newspapers my picture had been in. “Daughter Insists Father Is Innocent” and so on. I had also purposefully made us just a tiny bit late, so that when we arrived everyone was just taking their seats, and there was no one to notice our entrance but the smiling man at the door who shook our hands heartily and gave us programs—bulletins, as they call them in church.

            I had never been to a Methodist church before. I’d been to a Catholic mass, and while visiting a cousin I’d gone to an exuberant Pentecostal church service. This was somewhere in between them, more restrained than the latter but not so sober as the former. There was a good deal of standing up and sitting down again, songs from the hymn book interspersed with readings from another book. It all seemed to be on a theme, the goodness of God, which was interesting, given our conversation of the day before.

            I wondered if the minister was going to preach on the same subject, but I never got to find out. Just before the last song, and after the offering (for which I awkwardly fished out a couple dollars and then watched with wide eyes as Jarod dropped a hundred-dollar bill in the plate, as unconcernedly as if it were a fiver), the minister, a short man in a grey suit and restrained purple tie, stood up and asked for prayer requests. Jarod listened with a broad grin as people all across the little church started calling things out to him—“My niece is in the hospital.” “Sister Norma’s home with bronchitis again.” “Let’s pray for our brothers and sisters in Yugoslavia.” The minister noted them down on a piece of paper and read out a few more, and then he concluded with, “And don’t let’s forget the awful situation happening on campus, for the family of the poor boy who was killed, for the man in jail, and for his daughter at home worrying about him.” Everyone nodded and murmured agreement, and no one turned to stare at me.

            Then everyone closed their eyes, and the pastor began to pray, and I got up, stepped over Jarod’s long legs, and ran out of the church. People must have stared after me then. Jarod and his long legs easily caught up with me. I stopped in the park a block away from the church and leaned against a tree, trying to control my sobbing.

            “I am—so tired—of crying over this,” I hiccupped.

            Jarod put his arm lightly about my shoulders (some part of me was grateful he was not tenderly embracing me in a public park).

            “You have to cry. It’s healthy. Think of it as a pressure valve.”

            “I never—I never expected those people to pray for us. Why did they do that? Why were you grinning like that when they were doing all those prayer requests?”

            “The wonder of humanity. These people care for each other. They care for the family of Tim Morone and for you. I love to see that. I will never tire of seeing it.”

            “’What a piece of work is man,’” I murmured.

            “’How noble in reason!’” Jarod continued the quote. “’How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!’ Shakespeare was another man who knew humanity. Do you think Hamlet was being sarcastic when he said all that about humans?”

            “I don’t think so,” I answered, wiping my face on my sleeve, thankful for something else to think about. “You can certainly play it sarcastic, but his point is too good. Humans are incredible creatures who do have a great capacity for good. It’s amazing, really.”

            “I know. Do you want to go back to church?”

            “Not really.”

            “Then I’ll treat you to some coffee at Zara’s. Ah, there’s your smile again. Coffee. Coffee.”

            “What are you doing?” I giggled.

            “Trying to see if I can make you smile every time coffee is mentioned.”

            I shoved him off the curb. He charged back, and I shrieked as he tackled me. “Coffee,” he murmured in my ear and didn’t stop until I was gasping helplessly for breath, laughing as hard as I’d just been crying. I’d always wondered what it was like to have a tormenting older brother.

            “Now you really owe me coffee,” I gasped.

            We walked to Zara’s, and along the way I said, “Jarod, have I really only known you for three days? I think in another life we must have been siblings.”

            His eyes went all bright, as if pain warred with joy. “I though you said I was old enough to be your father.”

            “Well, not quite, but almost. I’ll settle for exceedingly older brother.”

            Half of him seemed to want to laugh, another half to want to cry. I ventured, “Did you have any siblings?” though I doubted it.

            The joy went away, and it was all pain. “I had—a younger brother. Kyle. He—died—a couple months ago. And I have a sister—Emily—whom I’ve never met.”

            How can you never have met your sister? Maybe she had been given up for adoption. But—no—Jarod had been raised by a European whom he called Sydney rather than Dad—maybe he was the one who was adopted. I didn’t know why, but I was prepared to swear he had not been raised with other children. “No wonder,” I said softly.

            “No wonder what?”

            “No wonder the mention of family causes you such pain.”

            I had never met a man who allowed his emotions to be so raw in his eyes. It made me think of the little Oliver Twist and his responses to mentions of his mother, or young Esther Summerson. Dickens is replete with family-less characters, who always find their families, or a surrogate family. I touched his arm.

            “Come on, Jarod. Coffee is in order for both of us.”

            Zara’s is the best coffee shop in Morrison. The owner named it after his cat, who, I am given to understand, is a discerning coffee critic. It’s in an old, refurbished brick building in the historic downtown area, where huge, old trees line the streets and you can hear the bells from the Catholic church, St. Catherine’s, in the distance. Small tables are always set up on the sidewalk outside, which was where I had been sitting when I first met Jarod. Inside was an eclectic combination of old brick walls and hammered copper ceiling with authentic American coffeehouse ambiance (at that point still in the process of developing its authenticity, of course). I marched up to the high counter. If the tattooed young man at the espresso machine noticed the effects of crying on my face, he kindly didn’t mention it.

            “Good morning, Phil. Two espresso shot blasts, please.”

            “That sort of day, is it? Three shots or four?”

            “Three. I think the professor here is unacquainted with the ritual.”

            “New guy?”

            “Yes. Jarod Clennam, this is Phil Dockery, the best barista in town.”

            “I am pleased to meet you,” Jarod said in his deep voice. “I must say I am quite intrigued by your tattoos.”

            “Good intrigued or bad intrigued?” Phil said, taking his money with a hand that had a snake coiled around its wrist.

            “Good. I find it very interesting that people choose to use their bodies as living works of art.”

            “People have been doing it as long as there has been art. In some cultures it’s mandatory.”

            “Don’t get him started,” I smiled. “He’ll give you a whole lecture on the history of tattooing.”

            “I would be interested to hear it sometime,” Jarod said.

            Phil grinned at him and began making espresso. Jarod leaned on the counter and watched him.

            “I understand espresso is created by pressure, correct? What kind of pressure?”

            “Steam and hot water,” Phil answered. “It gets forced through the grounds and comes out as liquid espresso.”

            “Such extreme pressure combined with the large proportion of coffee grounds to water must result in a very strong cup of coffee.”

            Phil stared at him. “Dude—it’s espresso.”

            I put my hand to my forehead. “Jarod, please don’t tell me you’ve never had espresso.”

            “Very well. I won’t.”

            “Jarod, have you ever had espresso?”

            “No.”

            “Dude, where have you been living?” Phil demanded.

            “In a hole in the ground!” Jarod retorted.

            “And you ordered him the espresso shot blast, Amy? Do you want to try something less…explosive?”

            “I like explosions.”

            “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

            He came around the counter with his tray and followed us to a small table, where he set three shot glasses of espresso in front of each of us, each topped with its perfect layer of crema. “This I have to watch.”

            “The ritual is to down each shot of espresso in quick succession without stopping,” I said. “Some people can do it easily; others gag halfway through their first shot.”

            “So it’s a drinking game.”

            “Basically. If you can do it, you get your next coffee free.”

            Jarod picked up one of the shot glasses and examined the lovely colors of espresso and crema inside. He set it back down. “Alright. I’m ready.”

            “Go!” Phil said.

            As the espresso first hit his tongue, Jarod’s eyes popped open, but he didn’t stop, tossing back the shots as quickly as I did. At the end he made the shuddering, gasping sounds of most newcomers to straight, American-style espresso. I shuddered a couple times myself. I don’t usually drink it straight. Phil plunked glasses of water down in front of us, and we both drank.

            “Bravo! I’m impressed, Professor.”

            Jarod grinned at Phil, still blinking a little. “Good stuff.”

            “Well, you win. Your next drink is on the house.”

            “Bring it on.”

            “What, now?” I exclaimed. “You’ll be so wired you’ll—wait, that might be fun. Phil, go with a latte this time. Single shot, and make it sweet. A mocha.”

            Phil shook his head. “You got it. What about you?”

            “I’ll take one of your lovely cappuccinos—but, Phil, make it decaf.”

            “His, too?”

            “No. I want to see him wired.”

            As Phil took the shot glasses away, Jarod leaned over the table. “’Wired’?”

            I grinned. “Just you wait.”

            Phil brought back the mocha and cappuccino. I stirred a little sugar into mine while Jarod, remembering the espressos, took an experimental sip of his.

            “Oh! This is good! Very good! Chocolate?”

            “Basically a latte with chocolate.”

            “And a latte is…espresso with milk. From the Italian for milk.”

            “So it is. Do you speak Italian, too?”

            “Yes.”

            “Jarod, is there anything you don’t do?”

            “Not yet,” he grinned. “Maybe I’ll find something someday I could do, and I’ll realize, No, I don’t want to do that today. But I haven’t found it yet. There’s this whole wonderful world full of things to do and be and experience, and I want to do and be and experience them all.”

            “That would take scores of lifetimes.”

            “With each lifetime a few weeks or months long, I have scores of lifetimes to spare. That’s all I need, really.”

            “That’s not very conducive to holding down a job.”

            “Which is why I take short-term jobs, like this. I’ve never been one to stay with any one thing for very long. I learn all about it and…move on.”

            I wondered if it was the caffeine making him so inclined to self-disclose. His emotions might ride on the surface of his face, but he had been very reluctant to give up many facts.

            “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

            He stared down into his cup, stirring it as I had been stirring mine when he first walked up to disturb my solitude with Little Dorrit.

            “Yes. I didn’t realize how much until…recently. Several events recently. But it is…necessary. There is purpose to it.”

            “What purpose?”

            “Finding them.”

            “Them? Your sister? Your—family?”

            “My sister, my mother, my father—”

            What makes you think they want you? I wondered. If they gave you up for adoption, why do you even want to find them? Was it only the idea of being given up by a family he didn’t know that rippled such pain through his eyes? If he had been adopted by a loving family, much of that pain would have been assuaged. But he clearly hadn’t been. Do they let corporations or organizations adopt children? Maybe Centre was only a school or an orphanage where they honed the talents of brilliant children like Jarod. And exploited them—for clients. For money. And there was Nicholas Nickleby in my head again, with its horrible, abusive school for boys.

            “Jarod,” I said involuntarily, “are you Smike?”

            His hand jerked, and it was only then that I realized I had been holding it, as naturally as I might have held the hand of one of my daycare children.

            “Yes,” he answered as involuntarily as I had asked. He was gripping my hand tight, until it hurt.

            Smike. The child hidden away from the world, denied his parentage, shuffled off to an abusive school, crippled physically and emotionally by cruelty and deprivation, clinging to the one person who showed him kindness.

            “But you’re Nicholas Nickleby, too, aren’t you? Swooping in to save the day. Never content to sit by and watch injustice happen. You’ve got to thrash the wicked schoolmasters and the Sir Mulberry Hawks of this world, haven’t you?”

            His grip relaxed. His pale face took color again. He laughed softly. “Yes.” He leaned forward and said intently, “And believe me, Little Dorrit, when I discover your Sir Mulberry Hawk, I will give him a thrashing he will never forget.”

            “You’re mixing your books,” I said feebly.

            “It’s all Dickens.” He raised his hand and looked at it, shaking faintly. “I believe I understand ‘wired’ now. My heart rate has accelerated, I can feel all my blood racing through my veins, and my hands are shaking. I have felt this before, the first time I ever had coffee. It is…stimulating.”

            “Caffeine is a stimulant.”

            “I feel very energized. Do you want to take a walk?” He swallowed the rest of his mocha.

            “I have a feeling that if I took a walk with you right now I’d be running the whole time to keep up with you. Anyway, it’s time for me to go see my father. Don’t you have studying to do?”

            “John Donne, yes. I’ll have all his works memorized by the time you get back.”

            “I actually believe you.” I got up. “See you later, Nicholas.”

            Jarod stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “You see too much, Little Dorrit. Be careful. Some things you don’t want to see.”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Are you sure? Your father saw something, and he’s in jail for it.”

            “The truth will set you free.” I’d heard that in church once.

            He smiled, an unexpected burst of joy in his eyes. “Yes, it will. But—” His fingers tightened. “There are people who will do anything—anything—to keep the truth from being known. Ralph Nicklebys and Mrs Clennams and Jeremiah Flintwinches, who don’t care what innocent people they hurt along the way.”

            “And there are Nicholas Nicklebys and Mr. Brownlows and even Lord Verisophts who are willing to oppose them. See you later, Nicholas,” I repeated. I left, wondering, again, just how much he had been talking about my situation and how much his own.

            I returned to Morrison in the early evening, rather depressed. It was unpleasantly surreal to see my father in prison clothes. They made him look like a different person.

            There was a piece of paper taped to my door. It said, “Come over for dinner. Jarod.” I wondered, with a wince, just what he might be having, but I went. Even macaroni and cheese sounded good at the moment.

            A very familiar smell met me when I went into the Skarsgards’ house. I set my bag on the table and went into the kitchen, where Jarod was flipping vegetables again.

            “Stir-fry again? You have a one-track mind. But you do learn quickly.”

            “I like stir-fry, and when I find something I like, I can eat it for every meal. I did find green tea, though, with Phil Dockery’s help. It is very green. Tastes like grass. It’s very good.”

            “Grass or green tea?”

            “Both. Though I do prefer lying in grass to eating it.”

            “Remind me to find you a few more recipes.”

            “For grass?”

            “Yes, of course. You do know how to follow a recipe, don’t you?”

            He laughed, as if at a secret joke. “Yes, I do. I made fruitcake last Christmas. Fruitcake is delicious. A word of warning, though: don’t clean fugu on the same surface you’re using to make your fruitcake.”

            “Puffer fish? Don’t you have to be specially licensed for that?”

            He shrugged. “A Japanese friend taught me how to do it. With her knife skills, I’m sure she became an excellent coroner.”

            I winced. “This is one thing I think I don’t want to know more about, especially not when we’re about to eat.”

            As we ate, Jarod asked, “Did you ask your father about what he found out a month ago?”

            I sighed. “Yes, I did. And he wouldn’t tell me! He said it was nothing—not important. I know he was lying. He was frightened.”

            “He was frightened for you. What he knows got a student killed and him in jail. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you.”

            “I’m not a child anymore.”

            “You’re his daughter. He’ll still want to protect you when you’re fifty. We’ll just have to go at it a different way.”

            “How?”

            He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Leave it to me.”

            “Fine. What did you think of the Christofersons last night?”

            “Wonderful people. Did you know Emma’s real name is Ingeborg?

            “Yes. It’s a Norwegian-American tradition, to name girls Ingeborg and call them Emma.”

            “I think I’d like to learn Norwegian. Well, I’m inclined to agree with you about her, and not just because they’re wonderful people. I can see Emma Christoferson killing someone out of desperation or anger but not cold-bloodedly torturing them.”

            “How can you tell? You just met her.”

            “I am very good at figuring out what people do and why.”

            I remembered the recording he had watched of himself. That sweet-faced, little-boy Jarod had looked at a painting and known why someone would steal it. “Yes, I suppose you are.” I quirked my own eyebrow at him when he gave me a quick glance. “I brought dessert.” I picked up the plastic bag I’d brought.

            “My favorite part of the meal,” he grinned. “I take it it’s not ice cream.”

            “No. I found this at a gas station. Not the sort of place I normally pick up dessert, and it’s not fresh, but it’ll do for a first experience.”

            I pulled my find out of the bag: a cloud of pink and a cloud of blue neatly sealed in a plastic bag by some unromantic company in Illinois or somewhere.

            “What is it?”

            “Cotton candy, of course.”

            “Oh!” His face lit up. “Wonderful!”

            “Just bear in mind this is no substitute for getting it fresh from a person who isn’t a factory.”

            I opened the bag and gave him half of the pink cloud. He tried first to bite it, and his face went bewildered and amused as it scrunched under his teeth and disappeared into nothingness. I pulled mine part with my fingers and watched his eyes laugh and his fingers get sticky. He was such a child. Man-child, flitted through my mind. I gave him half of the blue.

            “It’ll turn your tongue blue.”

            “Oh, good. Magic, you said. This is magic.”

            “I knew you’d like it. I brought you another bag.” I gave it to him. “Don’t make yourself sick.”

            “I’ll save it for lunch.”

            “Make sure you eat some real food first. Listen to me! I sound like your mother.” I watched the light fade from his face and wanted to kick myself. Instead I reached over and snagged a pinch of his blue cotton candy with a grin.

            “Hey!” He stole some of mine, rather more than I had taken of his.

            “Hey!”

            “You did it first.”

            “You took more!”

            He was laughing again, I congratulated myself. I licked my sticky fingers. “Time to go home and leave you with the mess.”

            “Don’t worry. I like washing dishes. Cleaning up messes is a hobby of mine.”

            “I believe you. Good night, Jarod.”

            I went out the back door. I got as far as my house and had to turn around and come back because I’d left my purse with my keys in Jarod’s dining room. Coming in the back door again, I was halfway through the living room when I heard, amid the sounds of dishwashing, Jarod’s voice.

            “Hello, Miss Parker.”

            Miss Parker? That’s not a Dickens character. Then I realized he must be on the phone. His voice was different. Darker, more sardonic.

            “Have you ever had cotton candy, Miss Parker? I understand it’s part of the normal American childhood. Not that either of us would know anything about that, would we?” He stopped and listened. “Did you really? Did you like it? Yeah. Magic. Do you remember the Cracker Jacks? You gave them to Angelo and me. My first taste of something sweet. And my last for twenty years. Where did you first have cotton candy, Miss Parker? A circus? Really? I should try out a circus sometime. Are they anything like the Centre and all its trained monkeys and guard dogs? No, Miss Parker. This trained monkey doesn’t belong in the circus. And neither do you.”

            I suddenly realized I was listening to a private conversation, or half of it, at least. Was I destined to always be eavesdropping on Jarod’s peculiar conversations? Silently I grabbed my purse and ran home.