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ix ​ Prologue My job is to let Ruben out of his cell. Through the door of steel-­ framed Plexiglas, I watch the shirtless, brown-­haired boy gathering soap and shampoo from the scant personal effects off his blue fiberglass desk. I open the door. When his five shower minutes are up, I will lock him back inside this brick and steel chamber —no larger than a modest walk-­ in closet. “Here’s where it went in,” Ruben touches a pockmark under his sternum, replying to my question about his wildly scarred front torso. I stare at the punctured skin but say nothing. The pudgy fourteen-­ year-­ old then twists his left arm behind him pointing to another pink, dime-­sized discoloration, this one below his left shoulder blade. “Here’s where it went out.” Ruben pivots back to face me. My eyes drop with his eyes to the start of a vertical scar flanked by suture dots running mid-­ chest to navel. A sickle-­ shaped mark also disfigures his left ribcage . He adds, “I had exploratory surgery to remove bullet fragments .” Until he explained all the scars, I hadn’t envisioned doctors digging lead out of Ruben. I’m new on this job. I shift my feet and try to meet Ruben’s eyes, hoping that he will linger in his cell doorway and talk with me. If he stays, I’ll think that my noticing his maimed chest is helping him cope with the idea of someone attempting to kill him. “What happened?” “Gang-­ related activity,” Ruben answers and walks off, past me and down the cardboard-­ colored brick hallway toward the shower area. x p r o l o g u e From a gangland veteran I expect edgier slang, not medical terminology echoing doctors and nurses nor legalese parroted from court hearings or police interrogations. I can muster no response to keep Ruben close. No chance for another question. I have many. Before working at the Audy Home, I knew only two people ever hit by gunfire—a next door neighbor wounded in the Korean War and a friend injured in a hunting mishap. A few more weeks here and I will lose count of the boys answering my query about their limp or conspicuous blemish with: “I got shot.” At first, profiles of each bullet victim freeze in my head, carving themselves out like memorial statues. Then the names, faces, and disfigured flesh patches blur into a single mass of resignation , the boys’ and mine. I quit asking about scars. ...

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