Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was—Daddy, you won't make trouble, will you?"

"This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else."

"Well, it was Kenny Davis. He—"

Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!"

Mom stepped forward. "David, you promised you'd be sensible about this. You promised you wouldn't get angry."

Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead."

"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took me to his house—"

"You went to that shack? You actually—"

"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."

A moment of silence.

Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost five hundred books."

Ronnie's voice quavered.

"Go on," said Dad sternly.

"And I—and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school—oh, Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the video or hear on the tapes."

"How long ago did all this start?

"T—two years ago."

Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.

"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two years—" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault. Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a house in Washington instead of trying to commute."

"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"

Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at 

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