He was holding the battered copy of Inferno. I looked at him, and he fumbled with the book. “This book . . . You know who the lowest ring of hell is reserved for?” I kneeled back down. “Virgil, I don’t think you should be talking.” “Traitors.” I didn’t say anything at first, but the words were in my mouth, looking for a place to go. “I thought you said you hadn’t read this book?” He tried to smile with a bunching of one of his cheek muscles. It must have hurt. “Are you trying to tell me something, Virgil?”
