Chapter 92

“Here,” Fowler said in a devilishly satisfied lethargy, “you will find the time to reflect.”

With those words echoing in his small ears Don watched as the world turned its back on him. Every watching eye, anyone who cared about the quality of his life, his very existence, was now shut out from reaching the little boy.

He spent months on end in the stable. Once a day the priest with no name visited: he brought pieces of stale bread, mostly heels, and whatever other poor excuse for food the school served up that day. Every now and then in the summer he would bring Don a little fresh fruit; a sweet, juicy apple some times, natural food, real like he and his family once ate back home, not like all the fried and processed death the white people forced on him.

It wasn't until around Christmas, nearly eight months since first going into the darkness, did a nun end up finding a wilting and emaciated now twelve-year old Don. He ended up having his twelfth birthday during his time locked away d
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