The Armory On Monjitas Street (www.penana.com)

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…