I came out into the baking heat of the late afternoon in singlet, shorts and thongs and wended through the garden to the shade trees near Wilson’s Wall. I placed the two books and a glass of iced tea on the table and dropped into one of the canvas chairs. Sarah and Mike had given me the books for Christmas with the compelling, “They’re best-sellers, Dad!” I reached for the top book, opened the third chapter, read the page and then slapped it shut. The unremitting hopelessness of the abused youth was unsettling. I had no idea why the book…