6 years old and on the street. I watch the other children get handed bread. I watch them get taken into the homes made for children like us. My clothes are tattered and torn. I go to bed underneath boxes or in garbage cans to stay warm. Sometimes I find this thing in the street that smells awful but at least it's warm. It's usually located outside the houses side windows.
I wonder what it is. I wonder what makes me different from the other kids. Today has to be different, it just has to. My stomach is grumbling something awful, my throat burns, maybe I'm thirsty. I stand in front of a tailor shop, waiting for the women to walk in and buy their clothes. It was as though I myself was the illness they were so desperately ignoring. Until a woman with light blonde curls comes up to me. She holds out her hand with a bright white smile, maybe she's my angel, maybe she's my savior.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Heritage
Ficción históricaThis book follows an African American boy as he wonders over into the white community something not usually done. Considering that during the year 1830's New York was severely divided into pocket communities helping keep the oppressed oppressed, sin...
