little row. Deshawn was many things, but he wasn’t neat.
That’s when I saw him—little Jamal. Five years old, all big scared eyes and a head of tight black curls. He was curled up in the big armchair by the window, the one we called Grandpa’s chair, clutching a throw pillow so tightly his little knuckles were white. He wasn’t crying. He was just watching continue reading …
