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“Why are you more worried about them than the ones in England?” Macdara asked one day. Nuala didn’t mind them speaking Irish to their grandfather when she was present because he was a big age, and Mac knew she assumed he didn’t have any English. “Tell me the truth.”

He didn’t respond at first, but then he said, simply, “The priests who run that school believe in suffering. They believe suffering is a way to reach a state of grace.”

“Meaning what?”

Grandfather scratched the stubble on his neck. “It would mean different things to different priests. Let’s leave it at that.”

“I’M GOING TO SEE FEARGHAL and Noel soon,” Macdara said one evening when his father was dozing in the chair. Nuala liked to knit by the fire. “They must be missing home, so I’ll just look in on them.”

Next thing Cathal was on his feet, pointing a finger at Macdara in warning. “You will not.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. You will not and that’s the end of it.”

“You should listen to your father,” Nuala said, though she hadn’t understood a word.

I will go, thought Macdara. I will I will I will I will.

TWO MORNINGS LATER, MAC GOT up very early, cycled to Maam Cross, and took the bus to Galway. When he arrived at the station, he asked the schedule and price for the bus to Limerick. He had the price of the fare in his pocket, nicked from Cathal’s trousers when he was asleep.

When Mac got to Limerick, which was the farthest from home he’d ever been, he sat on a bench for a moment to collect himself. It was bigger than Galway. There were more cars about. When he worked up the courage to ask someone for directions to the village where the school could be found, the woman he stopped told him it was three-quarters of an hour away by car. There was a bus but he couldn’t spend more money or he wouldn’t have the fare home.

He hitched a lift from a man who looked him up and down, asked where he was from and his surname, and then didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. “Thanks very much,” Mac said as he got out of the car at the school gate. The school was set off by itself, separated from the rest of town by a small footbridge. He waited until the car was out of sight and then he rang the bell and waited. Maybe they were all at prayer. He walked around the perimeter of the school to confirm the gate surrounded it on all sides and ended up back at the front entrance. He rang again. After a few minutes, a young seminarian in black vestments and a long wooden crucifix around his neck came out to ask what he wanted. He spoke to Mac through the bars. Macdara said he was there to visit Fearghal and Noel Joyce, his brothers, aged thirteen and twelve. They were probably the most recently arrived. The young priest said it was impossible, perhaps another day if he made an appointment. He had an expression on his face that Mac couldn’t place, but it woke something angry in him. They were his flesh-and-blood brothers and that he’d like to lay eyes on them struck him as no one’s business but his own.

The priest went back inside, his vestments swishing around his ankles, and after another few minutes, just as Mac was deciding what to do, the main doors opened and a long row of boys filed out. They were so small, around Thomas’s size, maybe six years old. The next group was older, more like Rian, eight or nine, red cheeks and skinny necks on them. The doors closed and there was no activity for a while, but then they opened again, and out came a group that looked the right age. After ten or twelve boys passed he spotted Fearghal, his head shaved, walking dutifully along like the others. The other boys didn’t have shaved heads and the sight of his brother’s pale scalp on such a damp day gave Macdara a shiver. He should be by the fire at home, sipping tea. He’d imagined them together but Noel was nowhere in sight. He didn’t want to shout and draw attention, but he wanted Fearghal to know he was there, so he walked up to the iron bars and made a sound like the mule always makes when he’s hungry. Like magic, Fearghal glanced over. Macdara raised his hand to him and saw immediately that he’d made a mistake. Fearghal abruptly stopped walking and the boy following bumped into him. He turned to Macdara and began walking toward him instead. Behind him, the procession came to a standstill.

“Have you come for us?” Fearghal called, his freckled, eager face across the cobbled yard hitting Mac like a punch in the belly.

“I’m just seeing how you are!” Mac replied, trying to keep a note of joy in his voice. He’d grown. Noel, too, probably. “Go on now! You’re looking well!”

“I’ll come home with you, Mac. You speak to them about Noel and we’ll go.” As Fearghal approached the gate, Mac felt something pulling from his center: dread, helplessness—like ropes someone had wrapped around him.

Two priests rushed across the yard and took Fearghal by the elbows. They forced him back into the line. When he walked off again, the larger of the two took hold of him and half marched, half dragged him up to the doors. Fearghal called Macdara’s name.

No, Mac thought. He kept his finger on the bell. If they’d just listen to his explanation for one minute, they’d let them have a visit, and then he’d be on his way. He grabbed hold of the gate and shook with all his strength but the construction was solid and the bars didn’t even rattle. He shouted for someone to open up. He’d take them home right then, sign them out or whatever had to be done. He’d find Fearghal first and then together they’d go room to room until they got hold of Noel. Back home they’d weather Cathal’s anger—How long could it last? A few days? A week?—and they’d make do with the space and the food they had. Their mother used to say every meal was like the parable of the loaves and the fishes. What was faith but knowing things would turn out all right in the end?

Eventually, two gardaí approached, their batons bouncing on their thighs. They told him he was causing a disturbance, that he had to move along or else.

“You don’t understand,” Mac managed to say. It felt exactly like the day he went to fetch the doctor for his mother, like his breath and his mind were disconnected. “I just want to see my brothers for a minute.”

“Look,” one garda said, glancing at the courtyard of the school, which was now empty. “They won’t let you in.”

Mac explained that it would only be a short visit. He didn’t see why it was a problem.

“Go home and write a letter. Make an appointment.”

“You’re a Gaeilgeoir,” the other garda said, and Mac was surprised.

“I am.”

The garda switched to Irish. “Go home and get an influential person to help you. Or at least come back wearing different clothes.”

Mac glanced down at his shirt and pants. Cathal was right, he shouldn’t have come. He hesitated. The courtyard was empty, the doors and windows seemingly locked tight.

“I’ve no way to get back to the bus station.”

He walked with them to the station house, where they signed out a car and told him to get in. Mac kept his head turned to the window the entire time.