An hour after dinner, the Loud girls gathered in Lisa's room. Lori was the only one not present.

For a long time, Lisa sat at her desk, looking at the faces of her sisters. She saw worry, concern, fear, and, yes, even pain. They each – herself included – loved their brother dearly.

"I know Lincoln's current state is shocking," she said, "and, yes, even off-putting. I know none of us really know how to deal with it. I don't. Not entirely, at least. I have a theory."

"What is it?" Lynn asked.

Lisa took a deep breath. "Lincoln was put into a...very taxing set of circumstances. He was isolated from his family and put into a prison. I believe that his newfound white supremacism stems from the fact that the only people he was able to connect with there were racists themselves."

"He hung out with racists?" Luan asked.

"I don't know," Lisa said, "but it would make sense. He was scared and alone. If a couple of racists extended their hands to him in friendship, he may have subconsciously adopted their views as a way of maintaining that relationship. He thinks he honestly believes in the bile he's spewing, but deep down, he doesn't. He's not a racist. He's a frightened child who adapted to jail life in an admittedly horrible way. What we are seeing is the Lincoln Loud who had no one but hate filled bigots to relate to. It's a known fact that if we like and respect someone, we adopt some of their characteristics. I think Lincoln admired and respected the wrong people because they were there for him when no one else was. This, as far as I've read, is how street gangs get ahold of the impressionable. They offer friendship and family."

"He has a family," Luna said, and everyone else agreed.

"I know that, and somewhere under all the faux Nazi ideology, he knows that too. We must remember that he has been out less than twenty-four hours. I hope that he'll adjust and shed this abhorrent nonsense. What we need to do is help facilitate that. No matter how odious his opinions, do not argue with him. On the flip side, do not feign interest in his beliefs. Ignore them completely. Go out of your way to show him that you love him for who he is, and he should come around."

"I hate seeing him like this," Luna said. "He looks miserable."

"Yeah," Lana added, "it makes me sad."

"I want the old Lincoln back," Lola added, looking dejectedly at her lap. "I missed him so much, and I was so excited when we picked him up, but this isn't Lincoln."

"Luna's right," Lucy said, "he's miserable."

"I know that," Lisa said. "And we all love him. We just have to make sure he knows that. Include him in your activities (or at least offer to include him). Do nice things for him."

Two rooms over, Lincoln Loud strapped on a pair of black combat boots with red laces and climbed out his window. The boots' treads left little swastikas in the soft earth.

He found his bike in the garage, shoved into a dusty back corner like a bad memory. He walked it to the driveway, climbed on, and started pedaling toward Bobby's house. The sky was a soft purple and the heat of the day had lessened. The screaming laughs of playing children salted the mild air.

As he rode, he tried to think of Bobby sticking his dirty Mexican tongue down Lori's throat, but his thoughts kept returning to his bike, covered in cobwebs and tossed carelessly in a corner. Who did it? Was it dad? Did he feel anything as he did it? Or did he do it with casual indifference?

Did his sisters really miss him? Maybe. Maybe. But life went on, just like it would if he died. There would be tears at first, but in a little while, those would dry and things would get back to normal. He wondered if Charlie and the others missed him. He thought that they did. Charlie even told him the night before he left that he would, and made Lincoln promise to write. Would their lives get back to normal, or would there forever be a Lincoln shaped hole there?

A car honked its horn. Lincoln came awake and realized that he was biking down the middle of the street. The car honked again, and Lincoln threw a middle finger up as he rode up onto the sidewalk.

Two miles up, he cut through a stand of trees and came out onto Bobby's street. A block away, he hopped off his bike and walked it the rest of the way, leaning it against a bush. A group of black kids played across the street. He didn't like leaving his things unattended around niggers, since they always stole, but these ones were young, five, six, or seven. Their parents hadn't taught them the finer points of niggatry.

From the street, Lincoln stalked along a fence running between Bobby's yard and a vacant lot. At the end, he ducked through a small hole. Bobby's house was an unkempt little bungalow with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn. Just like a lazy Mexican to let their home fall apart. Moving in a crouch, hoping the dusk was deep enough to conceal him, he passed through the backyard and came out in the side yard. He crept to a window he knew looked into Bobby's room and raised his head over the sill. There was a gap between the sill and the blinds just wide enough to allow him a view. Lori was lying prone on Bobby's bed, writing something in a notebook. Bobby was sitting in a chair, facing her, while also writing. With a sigh, he threw his head back.

"I hate summer school."

"If you pass this test, you'll be all done," Lori said.

"Yeah, but regular school starts in, like, a week."

"You should have studied harder last year."

Bobby had to go to summer school? Hahaha. Dumb spic. Lori was right, Bob-O; you should have applied yourself.

When Bobby got up and moved onto the bed, Lincoln tensed. Bobby ran his hand up her back, and she shivered. "Stop," she giggled, "you have to study."

"I know. Can't we take a break, though?"

"No! You have to pass this test. Focus."

The dirty bastard was touching his sister with his dirty, greasy, brown hands. Lincoln seethed. He couldn't watch anymore. He'd lose his mind if he did.

He pushed away from the window and reached the corner of the house just as someone started coming around from the other side. Lincoln's heart lept into his throat. All he saw was a flash of brown skin, and in that moment knew he was about to be beaten and robbed.

"Lincoln?"

It was Ronnie Ann. She clutched her breast with her hand and panted.

"You scared the hell out of me!"

Lincoln opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"Lori said you were tired. What are you doing here?" She smiled. "Not that it isn't good to see you." She punched him on the arm. "How was jail?"

"Uh..." he mentally scrambled for something to say. "I have to go."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sorry."

He started past her.

"What's that on your arm? Is that a tattoo? Cool!"

"No," he said, covering it with his hand. "It's a bruise."

He practically ran to his bike, and could feel Ronnie Ann's gaze on his back as he pedaled away. On the way home, he went over the encounter in his mind again and again. He thought back to her big brown eyes and the way she smiled when she saw him, he thought of the playful punch and the playful "how was jail" comment. He imagined calling her a spic, and the hurt he imaged he would see in her face made his heart beat faster.

Instead of going home, he biked to Carl's Ice Cream on Route 9 and got a vanilla cone, which he ate sitting on one of the picnic tables. He thought back to the time before he went away that he bonded with Bobby, how he once thought of his as the big brother he had never had. His stomach fluttered, and he threw away his ice cream in disgust. At what, he couldn't say.

When he got home, he went up to his room and tried to lose himself in a video game.