“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, dude. Just let me go,” the coward on the boy’s locker room floor pleaded.
Sam was lying on his back, his arms covering both sides of his head fearing I might hit him again.
One swing of the crowbar was enough. This was twice this week that the janitor’s closet had proven useful to me. How I expected they’d have a crowbar stashed in there, I didn’t. Just went in expecting to find something sturdy I could use to swing like a bat.
To say it came through for me was an understatement. All I needed was five minutes with Sam but the crowbar had cut that by two.
I crouch down next to his frail body. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear the first time.”
He rapidly shakes his head back and forth. “No, no. Y–You were. I s–swear I’m not g–going to ask a–again,” the junior sai
