I know people. But we’ll have to give you some identity.” Savas got up from his chair, grunting at an audible pop from one knee, and shuffling across the room to one end of the couch, where a small, green chest was pushed up against a wall. He carried it back to the table, and flopped back in his chair as Peter closed the book he’d been reading out loud to his teacher, in between arguments. They argued often, now, but not in a heated way, as Peter’s mind worked to absorb and analyze all the material Savas brought out for him to read. They had been discussing a journalist’s book about the Indians, and Peter had suddenly vented emotion at a speculation of ritual child killing during food shortages, but Savas was tired, wanted no more serious talk for the moment, and tried to change the subject. He opened the chest, and looked inside. “The killing of children for any reason is immoral and destructive. I don’t believe they did that,”
