Could make my heart ricochet through my chest desperately. I knew that hunger could hurt, could scoop me hollow as a gourd, and that seeing my siblings starving could hollow out a different part of me, too. I knew that leather could split flesh like butter.
I knew that metal shackles could grow into the skin. When I was 13, I knew much more than him. His baby sister has flung herself across him, and both of them slumber like young feral cats: open mouths, splayed arms and legs, exposed throats. He looks even younger when he falls asleep. I know Jojo is innocent because I can read it in the unmarked swell of him: his smooth face, ripe with baby fat his round, full stomach his hands and feet soft as his younger sister’s.
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