Fifteen and a Half Inches
He works nights now.
Nine weeks in which a thirteen-year-old girl had to rebuild her own privacy from scratch in a building of eight hundred and forty people.
One morning, at a quarter to seven, in which my son stood in a hallway in his socks and watched two police officers arrive to confirm a thing he had been waiting three days for, and in which his mother said nine of the wrong words and none of the right ones.
Twenty-five minutes in which a thirteen-year-old gave a witness account in a felony matter with nobody in the room whose only job was him.
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