Giant Men and Violent Women

And So It Begins

PRESLEY ANN

Concord, New Hampshire, has started to riot and burn. First, Boston, and now, Concord, the home of New Hampshire's Supreme Court.

The president released a statement today, not that it matters. The city of Boston is burning quickly, and the president's critics say that he is to blame. He could give a belated apology, but an act of contrition means nothing at this point. There comes a time, if an I'm sorry takes so long to happen, it seems forced, insincere.

New Hampshire will never forgive the president of the United States for not coming to Boston—the epicenter of New England—for The Judge's funeral. A sitting judge's life was finished, and not once did the president condemn the actions of those who incited the riots. Yes, he condemned the shooter, but he did not condemn Abe's Army, the group most believe is responsible for the shooting.

"I want to be fair," the president said.

He wants the world to know that Americans have a right to protest. They have a right to have opposing opinions. So, we shouldn't condemn every member of Abe's Army because of the actions of one.

For most of us in New Hampshire, this statement was akin to giving the killer a high five. Back in Darling, the House of New Hampshire is on a rampage, and so are its loyal subjects—from here to all the way to the Canadian border.

After Ashley left the office this morning, my mother and I discussed Date, and then she was called to an impromptu and mandatory meeting. I haven't spoken to her since. Her admin has taken at least ten messages from me, yet she's returned none.

Concord is burning. What is the House of New Hampshire going to do?

I called Boston Catholic Hospital to speak to my father, and after the nurse paged him, I waited twenty minutes for him to come on the line. "Sorry, baby girl," he said to me. "You'd think we were fighting the British. So many bloody people, we've started ripping hospital sheets to wrap their wounds."

He hadn't spoken to my mother, who's saving the state of New Hampshire from destruction, because he's saving Bostonians as they try to kill each other. Everyone's acting like they're so busy.

I called the hospital back to speak with my brother, Hunt, and that's why Boxer and I are parked outside of Boston Catholic Hospital now. Hunt is going to help Date. I see Hunt walking out of the hospital now, dressed in clean blue scrubs, carrying his medical bag. He's the same height as Ashley and nearly the same build. Two Harvard boys who love their gyms and their flag football, unapologetically built, they are. Hunt opens the back door of my truck and slides in.

"Hey, Box," he says to Boxer.

"Hunt," Boxer says.

Hunt does this—speaks to the prisoners first. He doesn't believe a man is beneath him, though that man is subject to him. I don't entirely believe that Hunt agrees with The Prison Work program, though he'd never admit it. He and Hyacinth have a cook, maid, and driver, just like me, but Hunt rarely interacts with them. He's not like Jewels, who considers slaves to be like children—though we must see them, we should not hear them. Hunt just doesn't have time to interact with them.

Hunt leaves his home at five in the morning and doesn't return until eight that night. By that time, the prisoners are in bed, preparing for the next day.

He recently confessed to me that he hadn't seen his cook in months. "She might have died of boredom," he said to me. "But I'm sure I would have heard about it...right?"

I assured him he would have heard about the prisoner of a doctor dying from boredom. My brother usually does not eat the food his cook makes because he and his wife dine at five-star restaurants.