LNCrawler

The Armory On Monjitas Street

I was seven years old. The hall smelled of rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, and fear. Ahead of me, a line of boys inched toward a door that kept opening and closing. Each time it opened, a boy came out with one arm held stiffly against his side. I didn’t know what waited on the other side. I only knew that sooner or lat…

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