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There were many people in our house. Half of them were dressed in black, and the other half in white.
The ones dressed in black had my mother's wrists handcuffed, while the ones in white were tending to my injuries.
My cheeks were still stained with the blood of the man lying motionless on the floor.
“What’s your name, little guy?” one of the people dressed in white asked me.
When I didn’t answer, he tried again.
“How old are you? Does it hurt a lot?”
My mother used to tell me never to talk to strangers, and they were strangers...
“This boy looks really bad. We need to take him to the hospital,” another person in white said. “I think he may have several broken ribs and possibly a concussion.”
My head was bleeding, and the injuries all over my body undoubtedly hurt, but I no
