I stand up to leave the room and glance over at him; this scrawny scrap of a boy. Thinks he’s tough. I know where he is. I know what he is rolling with. He’s not tough, but the show is everything. It’s a hot mess. There was one day, a long time ago when he wandered into school in his pajamas because he was looking for breakfast, because he was looking for structure; because his family, completely ignorant of all things familial, allowed him to wander city streets in pajamas, lost and hungry.
As I look at him and walk by his table, he throws me the middle finger; that’s all he has to offer. Silly thing. If he thinks he can move me with that, he does not know what I’m rolling with.
I know where I am. I’m made of far sterner and gentler stuff. A character out of a lowly chapter in a Dickens novel; this poor boy.
I look at him and chuckle. ‘God bless you, T…’ I move out of the room while I feel him watching…
690 Saint Paul 