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go over your Community Service Order. Its purpose is to give you the opportunity to make amends for the damage you did.” She glanced at Danutia. “And to give you the skills you need to succeed in life. Here’s a copy for you.”
    The boy dropped his bag and collapsed onto the chair she indicated. As Ms. Upton read through the conditions of the Community Service Order, Eric gripped the thick document, but his eyes didn’t follow along.
    â€œPay close attention to this last condition, Eric,” Ms. Upton said. “To help you turn your life in a more positive direction, you are forbidden to have any contact with the boys you’ve been hanging around with. The names are in the order.” She fixed him with her steely blue eyes. “No contact means no contact. No phone calls, no meetings. Is that understood?”
    The boy slumped backwards in his chair, muttering.
    â€œWhat was that?” Ms. Upton said.
    â€œNothing,” the boy answered, but Danutia had heard. “Better off in jail.”
    â€œYou will see me once a week for a year, or until all the terms of your Community Service Order are met. Is that clear?”
    The boy pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I guess.”
    Ms. Upton passed the boy a ballpoint pen. “You understand that once you sign this agreement, you are bound by these conditions. If you don’t fulfill them, or if you don’t obey any reasonable rules and requests set by Mr. Clough or anyone else involved in your supervision, the Community Service Order could be revoked and you could be sent to jail.”
    As Eric scratched his name, Danutia found herself disagreeing with Kevin’s assessment of the probation officer as tough but fair. The individual conditions made sense, in terms of keeping him out of trouble and giving him skills for living. Still, given that most teenagers consider taking out the garbage to be cruel and unusual punishment, the CSO as a whole seemed excessive and possibly self-defeating. She couldn’t imagine the boy meekly obeying. She hoped the Cloughs knew what they were letting themselves in for.
    When the formalities were completed, Kevin patted Eric on the shoulder. “Come along then, lad. Let’s get you out to Mr. Clough.”
    At the car, to Danutia’s relief, Kevin invited Eric to join him in the front seat. Kevin knew teenage boys. She could relax and enjoy the scenery.
    Although Mill-on-Wye was less than five miles away, the winding roads made the distance seem twice as long. Snatches of conversation from the front seat competed with the radio as Kevin sounded the boy out on football, school, even computer games, with Eric giving monosyllabic replies or none at all. White drifts of snow against the dry stone walls reminded Danutia of the long winters on the Canadian prairies, though here the snow would be gone in a few days. The fields, already showing a hint of green where the snow had melted, dropped down steep cliffs or folded themselves over rounded hills as they descended into the dales of the River Wye. There, at the bottom of a steep curve and across the bridge, was Corn Mill Crafts, a long two-storey stone building with narrow mullioned windows partially obscured by ivy.
    Kevin parked beside the building and jollied Eric along as they made their way to the front. Danutia could hear the gentle purl of the river sliding past until the building blocked the sound. A loud buzzer announced their entry, and seconds later a middle-aged man appeared.
    â€œGood morning, Kevin,” he said, coming around the counter to shake hands, a mop of fur padding after. “And this will be young Eric and Constable Dranchuk with you, I take it. Hugh Clough.”
    Danutia, who had grown up on a farm, immediately felt at home with the man. The weathered face, likely younger than it looked, the hair slightly in need of a cut (though not as long as the sheepdog’s), the well-worn clothes that sat