““I want you to tell me something,” I whisper. “What?” “Don’t get mad.” “What is it, Ana?” “You do care.” His eyes widen, and all trace of his good humor vanishes. “I want you to admit that you care. Because the Christian I know and love would care.” He stills, his eyes not leaving mine, and I’m witness to his internal struggle as if he’s about to make the judgment of Solomon. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again as some fleeting emotion crosses his face … pain, maybe.””