“She told the officer Noah made the whole thing up to keep from getting grounded,” Beatrice said, her voice barely carrying over the idling cab engine.

“My son doesn’t lie,” I said.

“I know,” Beatrice said, watching the yellow taxi merge into the four lanes of traffic on Thomas Road.

“I’ve been in her reading circle for three years, Julian, and I’ve heard her talk about those children.”

“Talk about them how?” Mariana asked, stepping out onto the curb beside me.

“She talks about them like they’re projects,” Beatrice said.

“She says children have to be broken early or they grow up soft like the rest of this country.”