I felt as though I’d been made a fool of. I agree that the acts of the past were heinous. But men have always enslaved other men. Only we seem unable to let that past go or to allow it to truly strengthen us. Instead we turn on one another with it, competing with tales of suffering and woe.

It is that mentality that I find so troubling. And that mentality that I so badly wanted to speak against, to my people, the very people who practice it most. Fox had stripped me of my beliefs without so much as a nod. I knew why he had done it. I could even understand his motivation. But that did not make me any less uncomfortable.

Look at the Harper boy. He is a perfect example of what I refer to. There he stands, well-spoken, successful, affluent—all of which he owes in part to what he received at the Chelsea School. But he would deny his own son that same experience. Where is the sense in that?

As the miles rolled on, I felt a stirring of resolve. Perhaps I could reach out to the Bryson boy, help him to see what Harper couldn’t see. Keep him from the edge of the crevasse that had claimed the life of my brother. Earlier, when I told Fox that he hadn’t volunteered much in my class, it was in an effort to avoid tedious explanations of my theory about such boys to Fox. If he believed that Bryson had not been making much of an effort, he would not be disturbed by my reticence to help him. But now, after my encounter with Harper, I questioned my own decision. Perhaps the boy would be willing to follow my own strong example. I might have a chance to make a difference where I had not been able to before.

The Wall of Pain