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We both go silent, and the fire snaps as a log collapses. The sparks settle before either of us speaks, and Dad is the first to break the silence.

“What did you mean about Ash Park?”

“It’s . . .” I sigh, not trusting myself with the words. But I can’t lambast everyone else for looking away from ugliness if I can’t speak about it to my dad, in our own backyard. “MacKenzie said today that she thinks Beck Parsons got pregnant because she was being handed around the trailer park in exchange for drugs.”

“She thinks this or she knows this?”

I shrug. “That’s kind of my point. I mean, if something that horrible was really going on, someone would stop it—right?”

I meet Dad’s eyes across the fire, and he suddenly looks very old, the creases around his mouth shadowed deeply, the lines in his forehead starkly black.

“Right?” I ask.

“Lydia,” he begins, “the world is a very complicated place—” He holds his hand up to stop me when I would speak, and I fall silent. “And it can be a very dark place.”

“So it does go on, and nobody stops it?” I press.

“I can’t say that it does or doesn’t,” Dad admits. “But I know how hard it is to get children out of the care of their biological parents, even when the situation is dire. The courts are set up to keep families together, not apart. And unfortunately, that’s not the best solution for the unlucky few.”

“The unlucky few,” I repeat, my voice dull.

“I know it’s hard to hear, and even harder to think about,” Dad says. “But the truth is that no matter how many police there are, no matter how hard the justice system works, no matter how many teachers and guidance counselors and pastors and parents and task forces exist, someone will always fall through the cracks.”

“That’s the truth?” I say, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“That’s the truth,” he admits, nodding. “If what you heard about the Parsons girl has any shred of fact about it, she has to be the one to come forward and say so. It can’t be you, it can’t be MacKenzie Walters, and it sure as hell can’t be her mom. Josephine should know better than to say stuff like that in front of her daughter. It violates confidentiality.”

“Don’t say anything,” I plead, forcibly reminded that my dad’s work brings him into the courthouse and in the path of county parole officers on a daily basis. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I won’t, but don’t let MacKenzie develop a habit of running her mouth,” Dad warns. “This is how rumors like that get started. One person has an opinion, they share it with someone who throws their two cents in, and pretty soon it’s a known fact and the pitchforks come out.”

“Maybe some people need to get pitchforked,” I offer.

“Maybe,” Dad says. “But remember—you’re talking to a defense lawyer. It’s my job to keep pointy objects away from my clients.”

“Yeah, your clients,” I mutter, my mood going even lower.

He’s quiet for a moment, watching me in the low light of the dying embers of the fire. “Are you catching flack at school?”

“Kind of,” I say. “Brandon Childress said something at the blood drive, but mostly it’s been pretty normal.”

“Your mother’s been having some problems, too,” Dad tells me. “I guess she said hello to Norman Walton at the market the other day, and he acted like she wasn’t even there.”

“Let me guess, he had a grandkid on that bus,” I say, tossing my paper plate into the fire. It catches, adding a little light to the first circle before flaming out.

“At this point, everyone in town claims to have had a relative on the bus,” Dad says. “Despite the fact that the video shows there’s only eight kids, max.”

“Nine if you include the Denney guy who was filming,” I correct him.

“You watched it?” he asks, and all I can do is shrug. “What did you think?”

“It was pretty awful,” I tell him.

“And it’s hard to imagine why I want to defend Lytle?” Dad asks, prodding me.

“I mean . . . yeah, a little,” I admit. “Mom talked to me about it. She said something about how you are good at putting yourself in other people’s shoes, and how Lytle wasn’t looking at the bus driver as a human being in that moment. He was just an obstacle in between him and his kid.”

“And you don’t want to get in between a parent and their child,” Dad agrees. “But there’s more to it than that, Lydia. Yes, I can see why Lytle would behave the way he did. I can’t forgive it, or excuse it, but I can defend it.”