1. When he says he’s sorry and he wants to come home, believe him.

At first, it doesn’t bother him because most kids are four feet eleven inches or even shorter. He gets to stand on the middle riser for class pictures in the fifth grade. By the end of middle school, he’s definitely short, but it’s okay because his mom says some people are late bloomers and he’ll probably grow in high school like crazy and since his dad and his older brother and sister are all nearly six feet tall, there’s just no way he’ll be a shrimp. Totally no way.

Here’s some advice: don’t give your phone number to fifteen- year-old girls. Just don’t. I mean, unless you’re a fifteen-year-old boy, then by all means. But if, during a particularly sad point in your life after college while you’re working at a teen center part-time in your old neighborhood and some girl tells you that her older brother is George (that kid you used to be pretty good friends with in high school) and you should give her your number so he can call you? Yeah, don’t fall for that.

It is late afternoon and Jordan is twelve when the three white unmarked pickups drive up in the dust. Cornbread, the dog, barks and growls. Jordan calls the dog off and ties him to the trailer hitch. Men in sunglasses, flashing papers and envelopes argue with Jordan’s father.

Mary was born with a lead marble in her belly, distending her still umbilical navel. By the time she was fifteen, it was the size of a watermelon, curving her spine with its weight. She moved