Howard Spurlock. ‘You speak as if you expected to meet her again, Gerald. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. “Come this way,” he said.
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