Yet I was, in peculiar truth, a very lucky boy.
In any case, the story begins with darkness. A classroom. A broom closet. A bowl of bruised light held over a city. Or, the story begins with a child playing the role of an ashy plum— how it rises to meet the man's teeth or doesn't. How the skin is broken or breaks because the body just wants what it wants: to be a hallway where men hang their photos on the wall. Does that make sense? To want to own the image of the man but not the man? To bask in that memory of what first nailed you to the dark?