"You're sure?" Arliss said, writing.
"I am sixty-seven years old," said Mrs. Vuong. "I am always sure. If I am not sure, I do not say."
The background check came back at nine-forty. Before they left, Arliss let Emi go back to the curtained bay and see his mother for ten minutes, and Lazaro did not go with him, and so he never knew exactly what was said. He only knew that when the boy came out, his face was a mess again, but different, and that he walked straight down the hall to where Lazaro was standing by the vending machines and stood in front of him and said, "She told me. About the snow. About what she said to the police."
Lazaro nodded.
"She said she was sorry. She said to tell you she's going to say it to you herself, but she wanted me to know first, so I wouldn't think you were bad if anybody said it again." He scuffed his sneaker on the floor. "She said you're the bravest person she ever met."
"I'm not," Lazaro said. "I'm just the one who was there."
"I'm sorry I hit you."
"You've got a decent right hand. Don't make a habit of it."
The boy almost smiled. Then he put his arms around Lazaro's middle, hard, quickly, the way children do it, as if getting it over with, and let go before Lazaro could decide what to do with his own hands, and went off down the hall after Mrs. Vuong.
Lazaro walked home. It was two and a half miles and it took him almost an hour and a half on the knee, and he did not mind. The rain had stopped. On Lake Street the laundromat was dark, and in the alley someone had stood his milk crate back up and laid the shop towel over the Shovelhead's open carburetor throat to keep the damp out, and on Mrs. Vuong's back step there was a coffee cup with every jet and screw and float needle in it, sorted.