Two nights ago, I sat in our bedroom on the third floor with the window open. You were already asleep. The night breeze carried the voices of a cabal of teen boys walking beneath. There is a steep grassy hill behind our building. I never take you to play there. The earth is uneven and I don’t trust the improbability of a long hard tumble. But I’ve always found it a beautiful space, open and green among the brick, steel and concrete, tree-lined, flowering branches blushing white and pink each spring with the promise of growth. It is usually quiet there after nightfall, or it has been during most of the 27 years my grandmother has lived here. But things are changing. The boys were raucous but stealthy, their voices at once overloud and vanquished altogether.
“She got HIV or something. She might got HIV!” One called out.
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