“Don’t play with that,” the woman says in passing.
I follow her, “I want to read the big Bible.”
Wrinkles appear between her eyebrows. “That’s our family Bible. It’s very precious.”
“I’ll be careful.”
She sighs, “Are your hands clean?”
I lift them.
She scrubs them at the kitchen sink with a little brush until my skin is red. Then she places the Bible on the dining room table.
“You may stand on the chair and read for a little while.”
I remove my sneakers and climb up.
One hand braces me against the polished table, I turn the pages. One reads, “Births, Deaths, Marriages.” “François, 3 March 1975” is the last entry. “Ames. 6 November 1969” is written above François’ entry. My name does not appear.
Where am I?
Dark fear suffuses my legs and stomach. I know I must not ask them. I turn the pages and begin reading Genesis.