I watched him turn the stones over in his mind, weighing each thought carefully. He built them into a tiny wall keeping his conscience from drowning the remainder. Such a boy was keeping his head? A twitch of his eyelid almost kept the secret safe.

He admitted to committing petty crimes to maintain a manageable lifestyle. The holes in his sweater differed. A rice thief, one grain per night; another pebble worn by the water which sheltered from the possibility of resurfacing. Despite bruises, his malady was hurt pride.

Under pressure, the young man’s foot had gone from a tap to jackhammer, heel pounding the floor to find the heart beating under the floorboards. The casual itch-scratching on his thigh evolved into merciless clawing, lacerating the khakis. His soul, under the guilt, may find a hole and ooze out, down his leg and into the floorboards. Brain and body had divorced, parting like young lovers, lashing at each other with no decency.

“It was never meant to go so far. Never. He’s still alive?â€?