I sat down by my elder brother, Liam Delaney. The two of us had been called to the office of our school’s principal. Liam looked down at me. Back then, I was ten and he was twelve. We supposedly looked like our father, but Liam was far bigger and better looking than me. I suppose nobody looked good in our school’s uniform, made of navy shorts and blazers. Liam put his arm around my thin shoulders. I was shivering, as usual. In all my years at Wilson’s School for Young Men, I had never been called to the office. Only troublemakers were called up.

“Liam, Patrick. Hello, boys.” Mr. Johnson, the head of school, smiled down at the two of us. I played with my cuff.

“What is it, sir?” Liam was bold, too bold for his own good, sometimes. Father always said I was far quieter. When my brother was born, he had come out screaming, while I was silent.

“Are we in trouble?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“No, Patrick. You are not in trouble.” Mr. Johnson gave s a gentle smile. My eyes went back down to the ground.

“What’s wrong, sir? If we are not in trouble, something bad has happened. Sir, just tell us.” Liam looked afraid.

“Well, the thing is, I’ve got very bad news, boys. You see, your father was in Northern Ireland, when there was a scuffle with some English soldiers. I believe a young Catholic said some nasty things about the king’s mother, so the soldiers fired. Your father pushed the young man out of the way and was killed. The soldiers have been arrested, as has the young man.” The two of us sat there, struck dumb. Our father, Michael Delaney, was dead. The man who had reared us after our mother died, was dead. The realization hit us hard, like a fist to the belly.

“No.” At first I did not hear Liam, but he kept on repeating himself in a low voice, which got higher and higher. “No. No. No. No! No! No! No!” He jumped up and, knocking his chair over, ran from the office.

“Will he be all right, Patrick?” I was the levelheaded one, the one who wouldn’t bolt.

“Yes, sir. He just doesn’t want people to see him upset, sir. What’s going to happen to us?”

“If you have family willing to take you in, you’ll live with them. If not, you’ll be placed in an orphanage. Are you all right, Patrick?” My own stomach was churning around. Mr. Johnson looked at me. I stood up, my hand on belly. Slowly, I left the room, before running down the hall to the nearest bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, I was still kneeling by a toilet, my shoulders shaking. I had emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet and was still retching. A few boys had come in, saw me, and had left. Liam opened the door, came in, and sat down next to me.

“Not doing so well?” I looked up at him. His dark, serious eyes were oddly watery and tracks ran down his face. He put his arm around my shaking body and hugged me.

“I’m fine, just sick. Father’s dead.” I did not cry. To this day, I have never cried, not once. Liam gave me a very wavery smile, before looking down at the tiles in the bathroom.

“I know. I was there, too.”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“I don’t know. Father probably left money for us somewhere, or at least for when we come of age.”

“Liam, I’m hungry. Can I get something to eat?” My newly empty stomach was making odd growling noises.

“No. You’ll just bring it up again. Wait a bit.” Liam and I sat next to each other, quiet for a few minutes, until a teacher came in, looking for us. We both had to go wait in the office for a car to come get us.

A few weeks later, after Father’s funeral, the verdict was made. My brother and I would go to St. Jude’s, an orphanage for Catholic boys. Neither of us was particularly keen on the idea. Both of us would rather stay in school. Our father had been a teacher and the two of us were very bright. The judge and lawyers had little interest in the opinions of two underaged boys. The only good thing that came to our family was the soldiers had been found drunk on the night of the incident, were given dishonorable discharges, and would spend time in jail, doing hard labor. Our father’s friend, William Franklin, had been selected to take us in, but nobody had heard from him in months.

A policeman drove us in a proper police car to St. Jude’s. The orphanage was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by moors on all sides. The building itself was an old prison, and had not been renovated since becoming a boys’ home. A huge, wrought iron gate surrounded the building. It was opened, so the car drove up to nearly the front door. The policeman handed us over to the head priest, Brother John, who took us to his office.

“You two boys have been orphaned in a tragic accident. Merciful God, our Savior, saw it right to send your father to the better place.” The man was tall and thin, with narrowed eyes and thin, fair hair. Later, I learned Brother John gave this speech to all the boys who entered St. Jude’s.

“Did God send us here, sir?” I was all child-like innocence, confused about our Lord.

“Yes, my son. He did send you here indeed.”

“Him and the lawyers, you mean, sir.” Liam spoke for the first time, biting and cynical.

“A non-believer. This is a Catholic School, young man. I expect all the boys to respect our lord, God.” Brother John narrowed his eyes at us.

“I do believe, sir, quite hard, but I don’t want my brother having fantasies. The lawyers and judge, not God sent us here.”

“Maybe God has some higher purpose and made the lawyers send us here, Liam!” Liam gave a smile. Brother John seemed satisfied.

“You two boys may go to Brother Mac. He will give you the things you need for St. Jude’s.” My brother and I stood, pushed our chairs in, and left the room.

Brother Mac was what a real Irish monk ought to be. Tall, with strong shoulders, Brother Mac had straight red hair and bright green eyes. He was dressed in a black cassock, but his dark shoes and pants poked out neatly.

“Liam and Patrick Delaney?” The man had the most lilting voice I had ever heard. Instead of saying our last name the normal way, Dill-a-knee, he said Dill-ee-on-ee.

“Yes, sir. Are you Brother Mac?” Liam had crossed his arms over his chest, either from cold of from trying to look tough.

“That I am, lad. And which one are you?”

“Liam. I’m twelve. And this is Patrick.” Liam squeezed my shoulder, affectionately.

“And how old are you, Patrick?” Mac knelt down in order to look in my dark eyes.

“Ten, sir.” My voice was very quiet, but I gave him a shy smile and pushed my fair hair back from my forehead.

“Good age, Patrick. Liam, lad, come here.” Liam moved slowly, hands in his pockets. I could recognize his mood. He liked the man, but did not want to admit it. Brother Mac handed him a pile of clothes, as well as a mug, plate, and bowl. I was given the same things.

“What are these, sir?”

“Your uniforms, Delaney. You are required to wear it at all times. You have been assigned a number, which you will be referred to by. Yours is 742, your younger brother’s 743. All boys six to ten are separated from the eleven to fifteen.” Brother Mac showed his true colors, those of a hard, unfeeling man. Liam looked at him in shock. I began to shake.

“Delaney, you all right?”

“He does that when he’s nervous, sir. He won’t cry or anything. He just shakes, sir. If he’s really scared, he’ll throw up. Best let him go, sir.”

About half an hour later, we were separated. The two of us had taken off our old suits and had been made to put on the uniforms. Both of us wore the white, cotton underwear and shirts universal to all the boys, as well as the itchy grey wool sweaters. I, however, wore dark grey shorts, while Liam wore long trousers of the same color and material. The grey socks and boots we wore were universal to all the boys of St. Jude’s. The two of us walked down the hall. It branched off, with the youngest boys going right and the elder left.

“I wish I could be with you, Liam.” I shivered a bit. He put his arms around me, sniffing hard.

“Me too, Patrick. They won’t separate us forever. We’ll be together soon.” But Liam was wrong. They did separate us forever.