NINA
Disembodiment.
My English teacher made us read this book. We were meant to buy it in the stores or look it up in the library; she made it clear that she did not care how we read it as long as we did. On the day she announced that a few weeks would be dedicated solely to the book, I was limping. Everyone at school assumed I was caught stealing or infiltrating someone’s compound; they all believed my life was one big thrill, that I lived for the high. A few kids detested me for it, the kids whose parents could not picture them coming to any harm.
Life and its little ironies.
The limp had been caused by something else entirely, of course. My father had become even more aggressive, which I had not thought was possible. The men after him were putting him on edge. He had forbidden us fr
