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           BythattimeIwasshrieking.Jemyankedmyhair,saidhedidn’tcare,he’ddoitagainifhegotachance,andifIdidn’tshutuphe’dpulleveryhairoutofmyhead.Ididn’tshutupandhekickedme.Ilostmybalanceandfellonmyface.Jempickedmeuproughlybutlookedlikehewassorry.Therewasnothingtosay.

           WedidnotchoosetomeetAtticuscominghomethatevening.WeskulkedaroundthekitchenuntilCalpurniathrewusout.Bysomevoo-doosystemCalpurniaseemedtoknowallaboutit.Shewasalessthansatisfactorysourceofpalliation,butshedidgiveJemahotbiscuit-and-butterwhichhetoreinhalfandsharedwithme.Ittastedlikecotton.

           Wewenttothelivingroom.Ipickedupafootballmagazine,foundapictureofDixieHowell,showedittoJemandsaid,"Thislookslikeyou."ThatwasthenicestthingIcouldthinktosaytohim,butitwasnohelp.Hesatbythewindows,huncheddowninarockingchair,scowling,waiting.Daylightfaded.

           Twogeologicalageslater,weheardthesolesofAtticus’sshoesscrapethefrontsteps.Thescreendoorslammed,therewasapause—Atticuswasatthehatrackinthehall—andweheardhimcall,"Jem!"Hisvoicewaslikethewinterwind.

           Atticusswitchedontheceilinglightinthelivingroomandfoundusthere,frozenstill.Hecarriedmybatoninonehand;itsfilthyyellowtasseltrailedontherug.Heheldouthisotherhand;itcontainedfatcamelliabuds.

           "Jem,"hesaid,"areyouresponsibleforthis?"

           "Yessir."

           "Why’dyoudoit?"