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behind.
    â€œYou’re totally going to ruin Cousin Rachel’s baby shower,” she said. She spoke in a low voice, just loud enough for me to hear. I hurried to put some space between us, but she kept up. “Hey,” she said. “My name’s Bethany.”
    *   *   *
    There was no Goodhouse equivalent for girls. The same markers in women were not predictive of future criminal behavior the way they were in boys and men. And as I entered the house, as I walked into its inner recesses, I felt very aware that I had never, as far as I knew, stood this close to a girl my own age.
    Bethany followed me into the living room. A dozen women clustered on couches and chairs. They stared at me, gaping openly, eyes moving from my stiff formal collar to my tie to the shiny gold buttons on my jacket. A pregnant woman was ensconced in a chair with bunches of blue balloons tied to its back. Colorful streamers cut across the white ceiling. The room was oddly familiar. I was sure I’d been in a room like this as a small child. I was sweating through my shirt. The tie seemed to tighten of its own accord. I was supposed to give the speech, and I struggled to keep my eyes open and my voice level. I realized I could skip the part about the shoes. Everyone was wearing them.
    â€œMy name is James Goodhouse and I am honored to be a guest in your home. I am happy to be of any assistance. Please do not hesitate to ask. I’m grateful for the opportunity to give back to the people of this community.” I made myself look at them. The speech, which had seemed just another bland necessity at school, felt surprisingly humiliating to recite.
    â€œOur tax dollars at work,” one woman said. “Wars, roads, and manners.”
    â€œVery pretty,” said the aunt. “Now, I think I do have a few small tasks that need doing.” She led me into the kitchen.
    It looked very different from the ones I’d labored in. There were no cameras, no molded plastic workstations. This kitchen was decorated like a living area. A large painting of a cityscape at night hung above an upholstered bench. Food like I had never seen dotted a polished stone countertop—a cake frosted to look like a basket of flowers; fresh fruit sliced and arranged in arcs of color, like a sunset.
    Everything seemed preposterously small. Goodhouse staples came in fifty-gallon drums, but here was a jug of milk I could lift with one hand, a mixer the size of a toy, a sink so shallow as to appear useless. And where was the sand tray? At school we scoured our dishes with sand first, but these people didn’t seem to have a tray. It wasn’t until I saw a stack of plates and a line of mugs that I felt a little calmer. These, at least, were the same size, and it steadied me. I was going to be okay. These people are like us , I thought. It’s just a different scale.
    â€œJames?” the aunt said, testing out the name as if she was unsure it would work. I realized I’d been standing there with my mouth open.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I said. “Please excuse me. Your home is very interesting.” I winced. This might sound critical. “Very beautiful,” I corrected. But maybe that was worse. She might worry that I would touch or take something.
    The woman frowned. “Please follow me,” she said. The hem of her dress swayed as she led me through the kitchen door, down a few stairs, and into a large, fenced backyard. It abutted a row of other yards of similar proportions. A maple had been recently felled and the trunk cut into sections like vertebrae in a spinal column. The branches and leaves were missing.
    â€œI’d like you to split logs,” the aunt said. “You do that, right?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œGood.” She went into the shed and returned carrying an ax. There was a moment of hesitation before she surrendered it. Weapon , I thought, and quickly corrected