Diecisiete
A Haitian youth with sclera as yellow as rancid custard limps away from the beaten body lying on the sand. His hand hurts from the punches he inflicted. Even in the cloudy moonlight he can see the blood on his knuckles, though whether it belongs to him or to the man they left on the beach he has no idea.
“Hurry up, motherfucker!” shouts a voice from several yards away. The teen struggles to keep pace, though he knows he never will. For as long as he lives he’ll be lagging behind the rest of the world.
He hasn’t walked right since that night by the canal. He kept hoping and praying it would get better, but it didn’t. The bite-marks on his legs have become infected. A nasty stink’s coming from them, and the bandages he covers them with are soaked with pus and blood when he chan
