“How do you preserve a photo that’s all you have left?” None of them answers the widow’s question. Instead, they shove demands into her mouth until she swallows their words as though they’ve belonged to her all along.

They tell the schoolgirl she must improve her posture. Would the girl sit for a moment? If she does, they can teach her how to take elegant strides. Good. If she balances one of the books on her head the way hawkers do, if she allows this weight they’ve offered to meter her steps for about an hour every day, she’ll be walking like a model before she graduates. She rests one hand on the books they’ve placed on her lap and returns their gaze. If you don’t look at the veins of her clenched fist, like them, you’ll mistake her restraint for acquiescence.

Without being told, the boys know they must not speak. Silence is part of their penance. They have erred, and someone has decided to punish them. A teacher instructed them to stay this way earlier. Was that an hour ago? More? What matters now is how one boy holds the other’s shoulder to keep him from folding in despair. They started out as friends or brothers, but the hours ahead will teach them how to be both.