A few years prior I was kicking my ball on the field toward the finish of our road, when a downpour of iron clench hands scattered me from behind, too quick to even think about countering, beating my head until my vision obscured, giving a thumping to my lungs and pulverized me to the earth, and afterward shoes and boots stepped me and battered my head thusly and that until, with my dread and resolution blurring into haziness, I heard my mom's voice somewhere out there, yelling, Oi, you let him be! They dispersed like rodents – a pack of five or six – and there she was, helping me up, cleaning blood from my lip and turning my wounded face side to side in her grasp.
For what reason did they do that? she requested, shock blended in with outrage.
What? Uh, I don't have the foggiest idea.
T
