"Because I've done it the other way," he said. "Not with your mom. With other people. I've been the guy who came and helped and didn't call anybody, because they begged me not to. And most of the time it was fine. And one time it wasn't. And I don't do it that way anymore. That's the whole reason. I'm sorry it's the reason. I know it doesn't help you right now."
Emi looked at him then, quick, sideways. "Somebody died?"
"Yeah."
"Because you didn't call?"
"Because nobody did. I was one of the nobodies."
The boy turned the juice can around in his hands. On the wall, a clock with a sweep second hand went around once, twice. In the hall, Officer Ostrowe was saying "...yes, I'll stay until she gets here."
"My mom doesn't do drugs," Emi said. "She doesn't. She used to, a long time ago, before I can remember. But she stopped. She goes to meetings on Thursday. I go to the kids' room at the church and color. She has a coin. A gold one. Six years." He held up six fingers, not as a child would, but grimly, like evidence. "Six years. She showed me."
"I believe you," Lazaro said.
"Then how come—"
"I don't know yet. I've got an idea. The bottle on the sink said amoxicillin. That's an antibiotic. You take it for an infection. Was your mom sick? Was something hurting her?"
Emi frowned. Something shifted behind his eyes. "Her tooth," he said slowly. "Her tooth's been hurting. In the back. Her face got all puffy on one side, here." He touched his own jaw. "She couldn't eat on that side. She was eating soup. She said the dentist costs too much and our insurance doesn't do teeth. She went to the clinic and they gave her the pills for the infection but they said she needs a root thing and that costs like a thousand dollars. She was crying in the bathroom on Sunday because it hurt so bad. She thought I was asleep."