I stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me.

It must be very fragile, if a handful of berries can bring it down.

I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you.

And then, when he’s been underwater so long I feel certain he’s drowned, his head pops up right next to me and I start. “Don’t do that,” I say. “What? Come up or stay under?” he says. “Either. Neither. Whatever

I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says.

aren't they the very reason I have to try to fight? Because what has been done to them is so wrong, so beyond justification, so evil that there is no choice? Because no one has the right to treat them as they have been treated?

We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared