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behind a row of books, could wait.
    “They’ll cancel the dance,” his mother said, glancing out the window. “Poor old Miriam. Her first year as chairwoman, too.” She giggled. “What do they do with the flowers, do you think? God, she’ll be
furious
.”
    “It’ll be gone by tomorrow night,” his father said. “Anyway, a little snow won’t stop her. She can fly in on her broom.” This to Nick, who laughed.
    “Walter.”
    “It snowed last year too, remember?”
    “Yes, and half the people didn’t show. Poor Miriam.”
    Nick leaned back against the club chair hassock, warm from the fire, and watched his parents. It was the sort of easy conversation they used to have, before the troubles. Her new dress. Where the United Charities money went anyway. Whether the President would come this year. When the phone rang it jolted him, as if he’d been half asleep.
    His father had barely said ‘Hello’ before his expression changed. He glanced up at Nick’s mother, then, seeing Nick, retreated to a series of noncommittal ‘Yes’ and ’I see’s. When the call was finished, he went up to the study without saying a word. Nick could hear him dialing, then the low tones of another conversation. His mother, nervous again, followed him, standing outside the study door with her hand against the frame, braced for bad news. Then she went in, closing the door behind her so their voices were no louder than the muffled sounds in the street.
    Nick knew they were not going to tell him, whatever it was, and he wondered in a kind of quiet panic whether he’d waited too long to get rid of the shirt. The storm had lulled him into thinking there was time, but now it was starting again. He got up from the floor and headed out into the hall, grabbing his winter jacket from the closet before racing up to his room. The shirt was still there, folded behind the books, and he stuffed it under his sweater, then put on the jacket, buckling the belt to keep the shirt from falling out. His boots were in the back mud room, drying out, so he’d have to go that way, through the kitchen.
    “And where might you be going?” Nora said when she saw him.
    But he was prepared. “The hill. With the sled. Mom said I could.”
    “And your boots still wet.”
    “I don’t care. Everybody’ll be there,” he said, pulling them on in a rush.
    “Who’s everybody?”
    But Nick was already opening the back door. “Everybody.”
    And then he was free, crossing the back alley courtyard, where all the garages were. The snow was deep here–no one had bothered to shovel in back yet–and it took him a minute or two to reach the garage and find the sled, crammed in a corner with rakes and shovels. Any moment now his mother might appear at the window, calling him back. But she didn’t, and after he turned the corner into the alley, he knew it was going to be all right.
    The problem was where to dump it. The snow had covered the trash cans along with everything else. He couldn’t just bury it in the snow. They’d find it after the melt, like a body. A mailbox would be ideal, but his father had told him it was illegal to put things there. Somebody would report it. Pulling the sled behind him, he walked as far as Massachusetts Avenue, where the plows had been. But it was crowded here, store owners shoveling sidewalks, people carrying paper bags of groceries, so he turned onto A Street, back toward the Capitol.
    He had gone two more blocks before he saw it–a storm drain at the curb that hadn’t been blocked by snow. He looked around, then knelt down, fishing the shirt out from under his jacket. The label. He took off his gloves and ripped off the black tag, his fingers surprised by the cold, then stuffed the shirt into the space behind the grate, pushing it with his bare hands until it fell with a quiet thud into the drain. He stood up and looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the street was still empty. He remembered then that he hadn’t cut