The woman shook her head. “He was always staying out, sleeping outside in forts he’d built all over. He brung things back for the other children here: toys and candies and such, roasts and potatoes for me to cook. I pitched most of it ’cause I knew he didn’t have no money.” Suddenly her breathing thickened. She touched her tear duct with her finger as though to manually press it closed but a tear slipped past.

“At first I thought he’d gone up north to look for his mother,” the woman continued in a sputter, “he always claimed she was alive, said he saw her in visions. Used to draw these pictures of her, all these colors swirling around her—you know how the Indians draw, with those energy lines? Except his worker was certain she was killed hitchhiking just after he was born. Still, that boy could see to himself. That’s a true fact. His uncle taught him to hunt and fish before he was murdered by his best friend—one of those liquored fights over some misunderstanding. I know one thing: Indian boys go sideways staying inside. Marcus was the same. Gets worse as they grow. They don’t care for the indoors the way the White ones do.”

“Don’t they?” Jonah said, annoyed. “Is that why you made Marcus stay out of the house from nine to five every day? Even if he was sick?”

Will shot Jonah a wide-eyed, imploring look.

She was sobbing openly now in her pouchy armchair, and Will’s mind flashed to his own mother. “He was driving this house half-crazy,” she wept. “Teaching the young ones to light campfires and carve little wood sculptures with knives. They worshipped him. I needed to protect them.” Then her voice sharpened. “Maybe you’ll have kids yourself someday and find out how there’s no way to keep certain boys from jumping off cliffs.”

Ignoring her, Jonah plucked an Etch A Sketch from the toy-drecked floor and after a quick flurry of knob twisting, showed the little girl a delicately rendered horse in full gallop. She squealed and clapped with delight.

Will leaned toward the woman and spoke calmly, realizing that if his time Inside had taught him anything, it was how to soothe. “Ma’am, did Marcus leave anything suspicious behind? Phone numbers? Papers?”

“Why, did he swipe something of yours?” she said, dabbing her sludgy mascara.

“No, I don’t mean—”

“—Alls he came to me with was an old shopping bag of hyperactive pills he refused to take and a chocolate bar his social worker had bought him because she was done with him. That was it. Not even pictures of his kin. Plus, I mean he shared a room here with three other boys, sometimes four, and to tell you outright, I’m not sure what’s his and what ain’t. Mostly a slew of boy things in there: bits of slate and amethyst, wood swords and slingshots, skateboards, and dead things they find. Broken things they keep and want to fix but don’t know how.”

After draining his juice box with a gurgle, Will thanked her and stood. Out front they found the child in the minivan fast asleep, its little eyes smashed shut in the seat as if it were preparing for some kind of impact.

“One more thing,” she said, taking Will aside while Jonah practiced kickflips on the sidewalk. “An old, white-haired fella came by a while back asking about Marcus. Said he was a social worker. Seemed real official. A right good talker. But he was lying.”

“How do you know?” asked Will.

“He had an old hockey helmet he said he wanted to return to Marcus. That boy never wore one of those things in his life.”

“So we know Marcus has either been kidnapped or he’s back hiding out,” Will said, pacing New York with his hands behind his back like a lawyer. “But where? Another shack? Or if the Butler or his henchmen did get him, where’re they keeping him? And why?”

“I asked Ritchie, and he doesn’t know anything. And Gideon said the Belcourt Twins dropped out of school and went north,” said Jonah. “So we’re out of luck there. But he did say the word is the Butler is offering a drum of Neverclear to anyone who finds Marcus, which might mean they don’t have him yet.”

“What’s that?” asked Will.

“Neverclear? The Butler’s newest gift to Thunder Bay. Gideon said it’s a blend of high-test grain alcohol he mixes some kind of solvent into,” said Jonah. “Apparently it presses the reset button on your head, wipes you clean as a blackboard, something all the old wastoids here are looking for, believe me. Maybe Neverclear is what Marcus interfered with somehow. Tell me again about that sheet you gave Angela?”

“Like I said, it was just a bunch of Xs on an empty grid, like a big game of tic-tac-toe with only one person playing. And there’s no hope of getting it back with Angela still in real Toronto.”

“Looks like a dead end,” said Jonah. “Oh well,” he sighed cheerily, lacing his hands behind his head while examining Will’s art supplies, “there’re worse places to be. And why do you always say real Toronto, anyway? Of course it’s real.”

When the spring rain came, Jonah’s basement filled with water the color of chamomile tea, and the creek behind Will’s roared wrathfully. Unable to skateboard, they whiled away their weekends at Will’s house.

“No wonder you never left,” Jonah said through a mouthful of grilled cheese they’d made themselves (Jonah had removed the heavy architecture books his mother had stored in the oven, plugged in the stove, and instructed Will on how to turn it on). “This place is unbelievable.” They sat on the couch in Cairo, watching an old Buster Keaton film called Sherlock Jr.

“It’ll get to you,” Will said pulling a cheese thread from his chin, “like anywhere, believe me.”

“You know what?” Jonah said later, as Buster Keaton was being pitched around by a hurricane and slammed into walls. “You look like this dude when you skate. I’m serious. You’re like crazy and careful at the same time. You even fall like him. It’s funny.”

“It doesn’t feel funny,” Will said, struggling to unclench his teeth.

“Whoa, don’t get mad. It’s a good thing,” he said. “You look invincible. Even when you’re falling. It never looks that bad.”

Inside, the boys gorged themselves on skateboard magazines and lore, poring over arcane details, savoring every square inch of photography. They memorized Jonah’s skateboard videos, Streets of Fire, Hocus Pokus, Video Days, the way the academics and inmates had memorized his mother’s films. They picked their skate gods— Will’s was Natas Kaupas, and Jonah’s Mark Gonzales, or “The Gonz,” as he was known—and tried to mimic their styles. They learned skateboards were constructed of 7-plys of rock-hard Canadian maple, which left them proud. To think Thunder Bay’s boring trees were trucked off to California to be shaped and screen-printed and returned as magic totems, as myth. The boys painted and drew in New York, covering Will’s walls with renderings of skateboarders and skulls. “You think I could have a go at one of those canvases?” Jonah asked. “I feel a masterpiece coming on.”

They played the rap and heavy-metal tapes Jonah borrowed from his brothers, which well-articulated the Outside’s menaces, much more than the saccharine Inside songs his mother had sung with her guitar in Cairo. Slayer, N.W.A, and Dinosaur Jr. made The Rite of Spring sound like a lullaby.

In New York, Jonah talked incessantly, with an almost automatic exuberance. But he again fell dead silent when Will’s mother entered with lunch, watching her with transparent awe. She would clatter forks on Will’s desk and say the same old thing she always did: “Gentlemen, draw your swords.”

Lately his mother was washing her hair and wearing actual clothes, perhaps because Jonah was around, and seemed insulated from the Black Lagoon. Once she touched Jonah on the back in a half-hug, and he grimaced like she’d sandpapered his sunburn. Will had never seen his friend touch anyone before. Occasionally Will would still break down and indulge in a prolonged before-bed cuddle with his mother, and he envied Jonah his fortitude.