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times he became so caught up in the moment that he could swear the picture smiled. The world would have been infinitely better if Sue was still in it.
    The group then sang a rousing verse of “Happy Birthday,” followed immediately by “How Old Are You Now,” at which point Mick cut them off. His body reminded him each day how old he was. He certainly did not need a verbal reminder.

C HAPTER 3

 
    “ You awake, boy?”
    Solomon did not move. He continued to stare at the chipped concrete wall in front of him, a few inches from his nose. The one time it had rained over the past few years had left a dark water spot on the wall. He concentrated on that. It reminded him of a mouse; the thinner channels of water mimicked the mouse’s whiskers, and the larger, more rounded stain formed its body.
    “ You hear me, boy?”
    He wished he could run away from his life. Run ba ck into the past. At least then he would be protected beneath Ms. Stella’s umbrella of love and selflessness. The present stripped away his desire to live. His twenty-three-year existence had been filled with people calling him a retard or slow or different. The words hurt. He pretended as if they didn’t, but they did. Rarely did anyone look deeper than his appearance or mannerisms to see who he truly was, to see the soul inside the skin. He wasn’t any of those nasty things people called him. He was smart in his own way—a way that had carried him through times that no human should have to endure. What most people failed to understand was that just because he spoke slowly and stuttered when he was nervous didn’t mean his mind worked that way. Very few cared to take the time to understand that.
    The clinking on the metal bars told Solomon all he needed to know. He did not look over to where the sound came from. He knew who it was and what it meant.
    He kept staring at the water-stain mouse. It had faded greatly over the years. But Solomon had memorized its shape having spent so much time looking at it. The closer to the wall he was, the less likely he would inadvertently look back at the old jail cell bars. And, more importantly, through the bars. Solomon refused to give him that satisfaction. Not today. Not ever.
    More clinking. Loud, o bnoxious clinking. A sound he reviled so intensely that it made his stomach knot and his lips purse. He wanted to explode in rage, bend the lifeless metal bars that held him captive during the nights. Reach through and crush the throats of his captors, specifically the one that was there now. It was nothing more than a perverse fantasy. He could never do that. They would kill him if he did. And his life was not his own to give. He lived it for another.
    Solomon kept staring. And just like each morning before it, Solomon ’s refusal to look back brought Clyde into the cell. But Solomon knew he was coming in either way. Nothing he said or did would stop that. It never did.
    Clyde fumbled with the keys with his nine pudgy fingers—the tenth had been lost before Solomon had had the misfortune of meeting him during their early teenage years. He stared down at the ring of keys that hung from a chain on his neck through his hazy sports goggles; his glasses had broken some time ago. Solomon remembered hearing King ask Clyde once why he wore those “ridiculous things.” “You look like something out of a science fiction movie,” King had said. Clyde had told him it was part of his character and who he was in the world after Impact. He remembered King then laughing and telling Clyde that he looked like a fool and that one needed to have character before becoming a character. Or something like that.
    It was one of the few things King ever said that Solomon agreed with. He tried to ignore whatever those around him said whenever possible. They spit poison from their mouths, hateful and cruel things. Ms. Stella had impressed upon him to keep away from people like that. That he was better than them in every way imaginable. He