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SleepersFall 1967 It was the morning of my thirteenth birthday. Our first month at Wilkinson had passed without further incident. Except for Butter – Tommy – my friends and I had lost a few pounds, due to the quality of the food and our inability to sleep through the night. My father had warned me that the noise inside a prison was, initially, the hardest adjustment, and he was right. The moans and groans, the constant coughs, the occasional screams, the flushing toilets, the music from hidden radios – none of it ceased until sun-up. I was walking in the middle of a line of eight, coming out of a morning math session taught by a sleepy-eyed former drug addict named Greg Simpson. The classes at Wilkinson were, at best, mediocre. Most were overcrowded, often numbering close to forty students, the majority of them as openly bored as the teachers. English and history were still my favorite classes and, while neither of the teachers could hold a torch to Father Bobby, they at least attempted to get some points across ...» |
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