“You need to have at least five —”

“FIVE? She needs more than that,” the boy took a drag on his cigarette before flicking it onto the wet asphalt. The little girl looked at him, eyes wide, afraid but drawn to the big boy who’d never spoken to her other than to tell her to cover her ears before certain conversations.

“I said at least,” the younger of the two boys justified.

“I’d say have eight… less obvious. And make sure it’s not the usual, but be careful, too… you don’t want him telling your parents after Mass,” the older boy instructed.

“I punched my brother last week because he tattled on me,”

“That’s the idea…”

“He shouldn’t have tattled,”

“Kid, you gotta at least pretend you’re sorry,”

“But I’m not,”

He smiled at the precocious second grader in her plaid uniform — she was going to be trouble.

“Keep going,”

“And I told a lie last week, and I called my sister a bad word…”

“You got it…”

“I’m scared,”

“Shhh, it’s not bad.”

He turned her around and shoved her toward the Church.