Macey
The seriousness in her voice immediately captures my attention. This is not the tone of someone telling a casual story. This is the tone of someone opening an old wound. A memory she has carried for years, maybe decades and I already tk what it.
I am no longer nervous about what she is going to say. I am afraid of it. I don't know why but I am.
“Up until the time I was around 11 years old,” she starts, “I was the protector of my brother. When kids on the school bus made fun of him for wearing his cub scout uniform (he was so proud of it) to school, I took care of the problem with my big mouth. They left him alone after that. When Dale fell off a tall stone fence, and his head was split open when it hit a sharp-edged rock, I carried that big boy into the house and alerted our paren
