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Aug 23, 2017 · 10 min read
In the small room, the fluorescent light is anemic, like it’s filtered through dirty water. It shows only what it wants to show, so details-the corners, beneath the table, the grooves in the men’s faces-are not so much in shadow as they are not worth the bother.The boy-he doesn’t think of himself as a boy, but everyone else in the room does-sits crumpled like a discarded pop can, almost completely still, except when he’s smearing tears across his face with his wrist. The men…


