The apartment was silent, and finally, Xavier could relax. His aunt and cousin had gone to bed an hour ago, though it was only nine P.M. Of course his Aunt Diane hadn’t spoken a single word to him, and probably wouldn’t for a few days. Maybe she didn’t want him in her house anymore. Maybe he wasn’t white enough for her. He’d overstayed his welcome. He’d burned his last bridge here. It was time to go. Sitting on the back porch, smoking a cigarette, Xavier tried to make a decision. Earlier today, after he’d slammed the front door shut and left the house, he’d changed the Chevy’s tires and gone for a long car ride. He’d taken the Mercier Bridge to the south shore. The bridge the Kanien’kéha:ka, or the Mohawks, had taken hostage that summer six years ago. The summer everything had changed.