The room was lit by the dawn blooming through the dusty window. There were stains of unwashed handprints on the surface of the pinkish glass, showing the lack of light in the small room. A messy bed next to the lonely window. A single dresser lay next to the unmade bed. The morning light had dimmed the lampshade that was there time and time again, so much so that the true color was unreadable. This light was barely touched because even when it was on, the bulb only produced as much light as to show the cracks and etchings on the walls. The glare of the sunrise through the dust-frosted window proved to scatter enough light that the lamp was obsolete by that time. The glare from the window drew my gaze to the mirror. The mirror was less of a mirror and more of a picture frame. Its edges were decorated with childhood photos. The blurry black and white moments told stories of a childhood full of family and happiness. A mother of two sons gallantly beaming at the viewer. A determined young boy swinging a baseball bat with a cocky smile on his face. And a beaming woman watching her sons go to school. The deceptions of childhood, gone into the past, clung to every golden edge. It was the first time he let anyone into his world and I was in awe. He was sitting when I saw him. This bench with the short left leg in the park. The one you sit on to protect yourself from the sun, with the shadow of the great oak casting its mark. Summer was in the middle of spring and you couldn't surprise anyone inside. I was riding my bike in the park when I saw my friend Paul waving at me in the distance. Paul was a stocky guy with an even stockier ego. He walked like the grass parted at his fee...... middle of paper...... trying to help us. We had to fend for ourselves. On our way home from our vexatious summer job, we always passed by the place where the men boxed during the Friday night fights. The illuminated marquee always displayed the names of the different men willing to fight over the course of a night. Well, on a planned Friday afternoon, I looked up at the sign while exchanging idle chatter with Betty. I was stopped dead in my tracks. The marquee read: TONIGHT'S FIGHT: OLD FAVORITE JACK SHARKLY AND NEWCOMER GRAYSON MILLS. PARIS TAKEN AT THE COUNTER. I grabbed Betty by the arm, pointed to the sign, and said, “Are you busy tonight?” » By the time seven thirty rolled around, Betty and I were walking down the street to the ring. Approaching the ticket counter, we paid our daily wages to the ticket clerk and reactivated our entry tickets. As we entered the dark room I looked around.