I smiled and stood also. “Quite impressive,” I said.

She smiled. I smiled back. There was a long silence as we flexed our facial muscles.

“But is Mr. Talos around?” I said. “I feel like I should thank him in person. You know, for the forethought.”

“Mr. Talos isn’t here today,” she said, walking to the door and standing in the frame. I didn’t move. “But I’d be glad to pass along your kind words.”

“Who runs things in his absence?”

“Mr. Talos runs a great many businesses,” she said. “He just happens to be out this morning. But he is the individual in charge.”

“Perhaps I might stop by later?”

“I promise to pass on your thanks,” she said. “And if you have any other questions about your child or our award-winning programs . . .”

I smiled and passed her in the narrow frame out into the hall of the old schoolhouse. The perky black woman and Jane Corbin exchanged hard looks. The hall was long and empty, every glass door shut, people going about their own business. Beside the art and the framed MCC posters, there was a lonely copy machine. The black woman then scowled at me. I smiled and turned back to Jane.

“Win-win,” I said.

Jane was no longer smiling. She looked doubtful of my story and swallowed a couple times. Her cheeks had a touch of red. I winked and showed myself out. As I turned to the elevator, both women watched me go. They were pros.

They knew a troublemaker when they saw one.

Do you really want to get off this island?” Dillon Yates said.

“Hell, yes,” the boy said.

“Then you got to drink their Kool-Aid,” he said. “You have to act like the MCC way is the real way. Say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and get into all the speeches and pep talks they give. Sing their songs. Dance their dance. When you fill out the forms about your progress, quote shit they’ve said. You tell them that they’ve done something good and they’ll take time off.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Are you freaking kidding?” Dillon said. “This place is Looney Tunes. All they do is feed us, work us, and let us sleep and watch TV. The classes are a joke. The activities are a joke. The pep talks are downloaded off some kind of religious website. The people they hire are fuckups. They couldn’t get work at a decent place. Two of the guards spent time at Walpole, for crissake.”

“Can’t you tell somebody?”

“Like who?” Dillon said. “The freakin’ governor? The guards like to watch us fight like we’re dogs. Or see us fall on the rocks by the beach when we race. They think all the crap we get into is funny. The more dangerous it is, the funnier it is. Haven’t you noticed they don’t carry guns? They want to do something to you, they’ll just beat the crap out of you. They’ll report that you did it to yourself.”

The boys stood huddled together in the common area between the housing units. Snow powdered the dead grass and the basketball court was pocked with footprints. Two black kids shot some hoops. The boy liked Dillon. He was the only one who’d talked to him that much since he’d gotten to Fortune Island, telling him the unofficial rules.

Don’t get caught smoking.

Don’t ever go alone anywhere with just one guard. Always ask for at least two, so you’ll have a witness.

Don’t mess with the black kids. Or anyone from the South Shore or Revere. Just mind your own business.

Don’t volunteer for work. They’ll have you picking up trash all day on the West Shore.

And stay the fuck away from Tony Ponessa.

“Who’s Tony Ponessa again?” the boy said.

Dillon Yates motioned with his chin at a gangly-looking kid with a shaved head standing alone by the edge of the open court. He was staring right at the boy and Dillon, his hands in his paper-thin coat. His face was thin and weaselly. He had some kind of tattoo on his neck.

“What’s the big deal?” the boy said.

“Ponessa is the mayor around here,” Dillon said. “He’s lived on this island since they built it five years ago. He killed his own brother back in Brockton. He likes to fight. He likes to start shit even if you don’t. If he has it in for you, just turn away, act like he isn’t there.”

“He’s staring at me.”

“Because you’re new,” Dillon said. “When I got here a few weeks ago, we were out picking up beach trash and he came at me. I didn’t even see it. He knocked me in the back of the head and started to fill my mouth with sand. He doesn’t look like much. But he’s strong.”

“I know how to fight,” the boy said. “That shit doesn’t bother me. I weigh more than him. I get him on the ground and the kid is done.”

“You can’t win,” Dillon said. “The guards like him. That’s why he’s always with Sergeant Fuckwad.”

“Who’s he?”

“You see the muscly guy with the crew cut?” Dillon said. “He’s totally into saying ‘yes, sir’ and doing pushups. He’ll start talking to you about a career in the military. Just you wait.”

“He drove the boat out here,” the boy said. “He watched me the whole time.”

“There’s something wrong with that guy,” Dillon said. “Something weird in his eyes like he’s taking a leak on himself. He gives me the creeps.”

The boy nodded. Tony Ponessa had moved from the court, going over to talk to the two black kids shooting hoops. Ponessa stood flat-footed and easily sunk a shot. When the shot clanged through the hoop, he turned to stare at the boy. He wasn’t smiling.

“I’m supposed to meet with the shrink today.”

“Have fun,” Dillon said. “That guy is a true weirdo. Dr. Feelgood. I think he’s on drugs the way he talks. He wants you to look at pictures and tell him that you hate your mother and that you want to go and jump in the harbor.”

“He needs to know I’m not supposed to be here.”

“None of us are supposed to be here, man,” Dillon said. “The only things that should be living on this island are seagulls and lizards. And Tony Ponessa. That kid’s got serious head issues. Did I tell you he’s into cutting himself?”

“What do you mean?”

“He likes to steal forks and shit and carve things on his arm,” Dillon said. “Last week, he got some rubber bands and tied up his fingers until they turned black. The guard had to take him out of the line and over to the infirmary.”

“How come they don’t send him away?” the boy said. “To some kind of mental unit?”

“He hates himself but doesn’t want to leave,” Dillon said. “I think he wants to freakin’ die out here or something. The guards love him. They bring him pizza and shit from the shore. They feel sorry for him or something.”

“Somebody will listen to me.”

Dillon smiled and shook his head. A cold wind shot off the harbor and cut down deep through the open space. “I know my mother has tried,” he said. “But she says it takes money to get people to listen. And we don’t have much since my dad left.”

“How long until you go home?”

“Six more months until I get off this place,” Dillon said. “But I’m never going back to Blackburn.”

“Why?”

“Because once you’re tagged as a bad kid, the judge won’t ever let you go,” he said. “He’ll find a way to get you back in until you’re eighteen.”