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shoulders; a swing of shiny dark-brown hair. “Caitlyn?”
    She turned around. “Oh, hi, Ruth.” She was wearing a big gray hoodie that enveloped her torso and had “Berkeley” written across the chest, and she was pushing a small, candy-apple-red wheelchair that carried the twisted frame of a little boy. The boy wore a Berkeley sweatshirt, too, and stiff blue jeans that looked like they’d never been washed, or worn, or walked in. His head rested against the wheelchair’s padded cradle; the mall’s lights glinted off his glasses. He made a hooting noise. Caitlyn looked down at him, then up at me.
    “This is my brother, Charlie. Charlie, this is Ruth? She’s helping me with my essays?”
    “Hi.” I bent down so I was at eye level with Charlie. I looked up at Caitlyn, who nodded, then extended my hand and touched it to his. His fingers were folded tightly against his palms, and his skin was so pale I could see the veins underneath it. “Nice to meet you.”
    He gave another hoot, his lips working, eyes focused on my face. Caitlyn reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his lips. “Do you want lunch now?” she asked. I wondered whether Charlie was the reason she always talked in questions, the way she left her sentences open-ended, blanks that would never get filled in. “We’re going to go to the food court?”
    “Oh. Well, have fun.”
    Charlie moaned again, more loudly, struggling hard to make himself understood. Caitlyn bent her shining head to his, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. Her brother’s eyes stayed locked on mine, and I thought I could see where he was pointing, where he was going.
    When Caitlyn lifted her head her fair skin was flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s okay,” I told her.
    Charlie’s fist bounced on his chest. “He has cerebral palsy,” she said.
    I nodded, looked at Charlie, and touched my cheek. “It’s a scar from an accident. A long time ago.”
    Caitlyn sighed, then straightened up. “Do you want to get some lunch with us?” The three of us walked to the food court and sat at a metal-legged plastic-topped table, surrounded by chattering teenagers, mothers and daughters, women in suits and hose and sneakers lingering on their lunch breaks. Caitlyn bought herself a Diet Coke, and, for Charlie, a paper cone of french fries. She dipped each one into ketchup and lifted it to his lips with the same absentminded love as the mothers feeding their toddlers at the neighboring tables.“WhenI was three my parents were driving on the Mass Pike to Boston for Thanksgiving. They were both teachers, they’d gone to school in Boston, and they were going to have Thanksgiving with some friends. Their car hit a patch of ice and rolled over into a ditch. They died, and I went through the windshield, in my car seat. That’s what happened to my face.”
    Charlie twisted his head toward his sister, his mouth working. “Do you remember it?” Caitlyn translated.
    I shook my head. “I really don’t remember it much.”
    Caitlyn wiped Charlie’s face with a napkin. “So who took care of you?”
    “My grandmother. She was living down in Coral Gables, but she didn’t think that was a good place to raise a little girl, so she moved up to my parents’ house in Framingham, and we lived there.”
    They seemed to think this over while Charlie chewed another french fry. He had the same brown eyes and rounded chin as his sister. There was a smear of pink glitter on his cheek, where, I thought, she’d kissed him.
    I got up.
    “Well, Caitlyn, I’ll see you on Saturday. Nice to meet you, Charlie. Have a good day.” It sounded so stupid, so trite. I wondered what Charlie’s life was like, trapped in a body he couldn’t control, able to understand what he was seeing and hearing, unable to communicate. I was halfway out of the food court when I turned around and went back to their table and tapped Caitlyn on the shoulder. “You should write about this,” I