“The way he cries all the time like that. Is he—is something wrong?” Danny’s hand went slowly to an earlock, and I watched him tug at it nervously. “Six million Jews have died,” he said. “He’s—I think he’s thinking of them. He’s suffering for them.” I looked at him. “I thought he might be sick. I thought your sister said—” “He’s not sick,” Danny broke in. He lowered his hand. “I—I really don’t want to talk about it.”
