Take Ox, for instance. His daddy gave him boxing gloves for Christmas. So Ox set up a fight club in his backyard. Beat ten, maybe fifteen, kids senseless. That wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t taken their money and sneakers as forfeit while he was at it. He figured he deserved something for whipping them. One kid, that one kid, Ox broke his face pretty good. Blood stopped flowing in places it needed to flow, and the brain went a little wonky. Now the kid gets soup fed to him three times a day through a straw and craps in a bag. The rest of the time he drools and moans. Not exactly what he expected when he pulled on the boxing gloves. I doubt he knew Ox’s name was Ox. I wonder what Jack’s story is. He doesn’t talk much. He just holds his body still and remains polite, lying on his bunk. “Yo. Jack. Where you from?” Booth calls for headcount, so I don’t wait for Jack’s answer. I hop down off the top bunk, motion to Jack to get up, and we move outside the door. I stand beside the door and point to Jack’s spot on the other side.
