The bus ride home was hot and smelled of sweat and stale cigarettes. June had been to the lavatory twice, each time navigating the aisle on the verge of vomiting, hoping that she actually would so she might feel better. She wanted to open a window, but the latch was in the row ahead of her, and the man who sat there was asleep, his blond hair mashed against the glass like a sunstruck crown. She leaned back against the seat, watched the hills and road cuts of Kentucky flash by. The first time it had occurred to June that she might be in trouble was a few weeks before, on another bus ride—a school field trip to Charleston—her friend Vivian Taylor in the seat beside her. June’s lunch bag had lain between them, its brown paper smudged with grease from the fried bologna sandwich she had made that morning.…