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When he was eight years old, his parents left him with his grandparents, supposedly for just a few hours.
They never returned.
The church was enormous, with paintings and frames he had to force himself to ignore. The statues seemed to stare right at him whenever he dared to look at them. As the words and prayers were recited, which he clumsily repeated, he didn't take his eyes off the floor for a second.
It was such a beautiful place that he didn't want to ruin it by looking at it.
His grandmother knelt when others stood, as if kneeling were the right thing to do, so he did it even though his knees ached. The mass was long and filled with singing; tears streamed from his grandparents' eyes, but he only stared at the floor.
As they left, following the coffins, his hand slipped, and the departing crowd pushed him. He remained inside the church.
He remembers seeing the statue of Mary, the mother of Jesus, her bright, deep eyes.
His mother didn't usually talk about religion; sometimes, for holidays, they would pray or do the novena, where they always spoke of Mary. He approached the statue.
Mary's son died, and Simon's parents died.
He doesn't remember much about the burial, or about his grandfather carrying him out of the church. He remembers crying when his parents were buried and he couldn't even see their coffins anymore; they were gone.
At nine, he began to learn prayers in Italian. He knew Italian, as well as any nine-year-old could speak, but he couldn't learn the prayers.
Simple prayers before meals, upon waking, before going to sleep, to ask for things, and for specific dates.
The town didn't have a Catholic church as such. Nonna had made sure to explain to him the difference between Catholics, Protestants, and the others. They didn't believe in Mary, which he thought was wrong; in his opinion, Mary seemed much kinder than God.
The prayers were simple to repeat, the Bible stories entertaining to a certain extent.
Sin; he didn't like that word.
He still doesn't like it. He still detests it.
Sin was something bad, dirty, something that saddened God, something for which one should be punished. His mother didn't punish him like his Nonna did, nor did his father.
His parents explained things to him until he did them correctly.
His grandmother sometimes hit his hands.
Pain forges character, as it did with the saints. Pain makes us good and reminds us not to sin. He doesn't like that part of religion.
"Why?" Alfred asks.
"Because we'll go to hell," he replies, gazing into the distance. "It's lying, and that's a sin. Sin takes you to hell."
"But it's just a game. We're not hurting anyone." Alfred takes his hand. "If it makes you happy, why would it be a sin?"
"To tempt us?" he says doubtfully.
The teacher had fallen ill, there was no replacement, his school wasn't the biggest, and having a bunch of kids doing nothing didn't sit well with the school. They were sending them home. Alfred told him not to go home, but to go play by the lake and come home as if they'd been to school.
"Come on, Simon," Alfred smiles at him. "It'll be fun, and God is supposed to forgive. He'll forgive us for a lie."
God is supposed to be merciful; he knows that.
He ends up playing with Alfred and lies when he gets home. His grandmother finds out the next day at the market that the class was canceled and hits his hands. It's not hard, it doesn't even leave marks, but it hurts.
Nonno sits beside him for the rest of the afternoon and reads him a book about an adventurer. The adventurer is good, he saves people, but he also lies, he also steals. The adventurer will go to hell, or maybe not, maybe because he does it for good reasons, God will forgive him.
There are many things that are sins, there are many exceptions.
"So what should I do?" he asks his grandmother, confused. "If they ask me and I lie, is bad"
"Well…" He had never heard Nonna hesitate. "It's different. Saying that puts you in danger."
"But you said that the disciples never hid what they did, even though it put them in danger."
The woman hesitates and gestures for him to sit beside her. He is ten years old and doubts everything, doubts whether he is human or something else.
"Yes, but they were adults, not children," Grandma stroked his hair, "and when they were with Jesus, they had to hide, and there was no shame in doing so, because they were going to help."
"Does lying matter if it's to help?"
He looked at his pants, looked at the ground, looked at everything except his grandmother, but he felt her hand on his shoulder.
"If it's to help others, no," the woman said softly, "if it's to protect yourself and others, it doesn't matter." Her hand patted him gently. "So you can't tell anyone you're a super, ever."
"I understand," he says uncertainly. "Nonna... am I bad for being a super? Will I go to hell?"
"No, sweetheart," he feels her arms around him. "God created everyone for a reason, just the way we are. You won't go to hell. You're a good boy."
He cries in his grandmother's arms. He really didn't want to go to hell. His parents aren't in hell.
Dinner is quiet, and his grandfather tells him stories until they turn on the radio and listen to the radio drama together.
Alfred reveals that he's also a super the following week after that conversation. If Alfred, who is so good and everything Simon can't be, is a super, maybe he isn't doomed.
Alfred controls his powers. Simon still remembers the smell of Bubbles. Simon still smells burnt photo paper. Simon still can't watch television or read in class.
The photo of his parents with him, smiling when he was younger and didn't wear glasses, is burned.
Heroes are good and don't do harm. Simon can't help but do harm, and his Nonna and Nonno want the best for him; that's not being a hero.
Heroes are good, but super-good people aren't like him. They're like Alfred, and they don't accidentally kill small, innocent creatures.
Maybe he hits his chest harder than he should while saying, "Through my fault, through my most grievous fault," on Sunday when he prays with his grandmother.
Homosexuality. He had heard the term before, in passing. He didn't know what it meant, but now that everyone talks about girls, they also talk about being a sissy.
Sometimes they say it behind his back, as if not seeing them would prevent him from hearing. He doesn't know what a sissy or a faggot is, only that it's a synonym for homosexuality.
He asks his teacher what it means; she says they're sick men.
He asks his grandmother, and she says it's a sin.
If it's a sin, it must be something very bad.
"Father," he says softly, "can I ask you a question?"
There's a church nearby, not Catholic, which is why they don't usually go, but it has a confessional, and he supposes he can ask the priest questions there. Confession is often mentioned in the prayers. Nonna says he should make his First Communion, but the nearest Catholic church is far away, and he doesn't want to wake up in the middle of the night on Saturdays to go.
Nonna will make him go; she'll hit his hands when she finds him sneaking out some days. He'll stop sneaking out.
"Of course, little one," the man on the other end says.
"Why is homosexuality a sin?" he asks, unsure of himself. "Aren't we supposed to care for the sick? Is it different for Christians?"
The man he can't see remains silent for a long time. Simon fears he's made a mistake. So he wrings his hands, his nails scraping against each other.
"Do you know what homosexuality is?" the priest's voice is kind.
"I'm not sure."
"Homosexuality is when a man loves another man and a woman loves another woman," the man says gently.
"Isn't love good?" he asks, more confused. "Shouldn't we love our neighbors as ourselves?"
"You're intelligent," the man says in a tone he thinks is cheerful, "but it's not just loving like you love a friend or your neighbor, it's loving like your parents loved each other."
"They were happy together," he says, picking at his nails, pulling back a bit of cuticle. "Is it wrong to be happy?"
"No, it's not wrong, my child." The priest remains silent for a moment. "I'll tell you a secret, but you mustn't tell anyone.
Secrets are good, secrets protect.
"Okay
"Homosexuality isn't a sin, it's just another form of love, but people are afraid of what's different, so they call it a sin," the voice is wise.
He doesn't know that those words will save him when he grows up. He doesn't know that the man was kind because he knew.
"I'm different," he says, touching his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Are people afraid of me?"
"No, but you must keep quiet about being different," the father is kind.
"Is being different a sin?"
"No, but people... people killed Jesus for being different."
When he goes outside, he sees the large statue of Jesus, the blood dripping down his body, his expression of pain, and those deep eyes. Jesus wanted to help; he saved everyone like a hero, and yet he died on a cross, and his mother had to mourn him.
Some people say that Jesus was a super; Nonna says that's blasphemy.
He doesn't want to make anyone cry like Jesus did by being a hero to humanity, so he will hide what makes him different. No one will ever know what he is a super.
The older boys show them magazines where the women wear skimpy clothes, commenting on how hot they are and calling them sluts. Simon doesn't understand why they say that; it's rude and disgusting. Several of the boys in his class start giving the girls strange looks
Several of the older boys live in the small town because their parents own family farms, others as punishment, and those who are actually from the town don't usually have those magazines. That's something you see in big cities.
He hangs out with several girls; they're friendlier, they don't mind that he doesn't play, they don't mind that he doesn't see them, and besides, Alfred asked him to talk nicely to the girl he likes. So he listens to them talk and discovers that the girls don't have those weird magazines the boys have, but they do have their own magazines.
They look at fashion magazines, and he watches them out of the corner of his eye when they talk about the man of their dreams, just like the boys talk about the woman of their dreams. He can't help but look at those men in suits with what he thinks is jealousy.
If he looked like that, maybe he wouldn't have to worry about girls and boys; he could simply be admired.
It's not jealousy, but he doesn't know it yet.
"Sissy!"
The food falls on his head, the word leaves him speechless. Alfred approaches and yells at the boy who threw food on him. After that, the whispers and words keep coming.
"Soft"
"Sensitive"
"Different"
"Weirdo"
He thinks about the words, not knowing what he did wrong. He prays before going to sleep, asking for an answer from Jesus or Mary. They were human; they must know how to be a functioning human. He prays for answers that don't come.
"Simon," one of the girls smiles at him, "do you want to be part of our team?"
"Can Alfred be too?" he asks excitedly.
No one invites him to be with them anymore. He doesn't know what he did to make them hate him, but there's something wrong with him; he's a freak. The girls seem to care less than the boys. Sometimes they joke that he's their bodyguard when he follows them around while Alfred is busy.
They often look after him.
"No" his companion denies. "He bothers Brittany."
"Britany insulted his hair," he says, looking at the ground. "Maybe they can be friends again if they talk."
"You're a little slow, Simon," the girl laughs. "Alfred liked Brittany, and now that she rejected him, he feels hurt. They weren't friends; he just wanted her to be his girlfriend." The girl puts a hand on his shoulder. "We want you on the team, not Alfred."
"I always team up with Alfred…"
Alfred gets angry with him for teaming up with the girls and tells him that's why they want to beat him up. He doesn't understand what that has to do with anything. Surprisingly, Peter starts talking to him after that.
Peter is kind and nice. Peter doesn't pay much attention to him, but he isn't rude to him.
They are twelve, and they are being told about puberty.
The older boys talk about masturbation. Simon knows that's a sin. That's what his grandmother says.
The boys see the girls, and what used to be holding hands turns into kissing.
Sex.
His grandmother says it's a sin to be pregnant before marriage. The teacher tells him he should stop being vulgar and punishes him for asking.
He asks Alfred, who tells him it's where babies come from. The girls laugh and tell him he's a boy, that he should know better than to ask a lady that.
No one has a clear answer.
He goes to church. The large figure of Jesus stares at him. His eyes look tired, and Simon knows he prefers Mary's gaze; she is kinder, less terrified. Mary isn't usually dying in her statues.
He sits down, hears the priest enter, and takes a deep breath.
"Father," he says softly, "may I ask you a question?"
"Of course, go ahead."
"What is sex?" he hears a noise on the other side of the door, then silence.
"How old are you?" the man asks, his tone odd.
"Twelve. Everyone at school seems to know what it is and jokes about it, but I don't understand."
"Well... sex is the carnal act of a man and a woman uniting to procreate, although some use it for pleasure... you're too young for that," the man adds quickly.
"What does 'carnal' mean?"
"Of flesh, of body"
"Is procreation having babies?" he asks uncertainly and hears a laugh.
"Yes, it's having babies."
"Why is everyone talking about it?" he asks uncertainly. "Why are they insulting girls? What does it mean to be a whore?"
"Child, don't repeat those words in God's house."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he listens to his breathing. "They're talking about it because they're children. It's new, forbidden, and that tempts them, but you don't like forbidden things, right?"
"No, sir, I don't want to go to hell; my parents are in heaven."
"They insult girls because it makes them feel good, powerful, and the word you said refers to a woman who is... carnally with many men. It's a way of calling them less of a woman, it's an insult."
"Like when they call me less of a man?"
The silence is longer than he's used to.
"Father?"
"Do you know the commandments?"
"In English and Italian"
"Good," the man says gently, "you know what Jesus said to his disciples."
"He told them many things," he hesitates, "always in riddles."
"Yes, so that those who want to listen understand." Silence returns. "You're kind, that's good, but you can't tell anyone your questions."
"Is it because that would put me in danger?" he asks, picking at the skin around his fingers.
"Yes, it would."
"Father... am I a sinner?"
He can't stop watching Peter's hands, his small gestures; he longs to see his smile. He spends time running in the meadow with Alfred, and when he sees the other children, also sweaty from their rough play, he can't look away.
He accidentally sets a boy's shirt on fire, and everything descends into chaos. Luckily, Alfred pulls him away so they aren't seen, and no adult believes that a shirt caught fire on its own. At school, they are taught about the dangers of fire.
"Do you want me to read the Bible to you?" Nonno asks in amazement.
"Yes, I don't want to burn it."
If he burns a Bible, will he end up in hell?
He doesn't ask. Questions are dangerous. Nonna has told him so, the priest has told him so, his teacher has punished him. So he keeps his gaze lowered and stops questioning, like everyone tells him he should.
"If that's what you want."
Nonno makes voices while reading the Bible. It's entertaining, although his grandmother scolds him when she sees him doing it, telling him he should take the scriptures more seriously. The scriptures are strange. He hears about Sodom and Gomorrah; he dreams of fire and salt.
The girls show him their new magazines. Carly brings a different one that she says she found hidden in her mother's room. He looks at the men's torsos, their figures, and feels strange. He hears the boys talking about girls, and it doesn't sound any different from how he feels about those pictures.
He feels something strange, but doesn't ask anyone.
Marina Magdalena is a woman of ill repute. Nonna calls her a prostitute, but Nonno tells her not to say that in front of him. The older boys in town would call her a whore. He doesn't believe Mary Magdalene is that.
She sounds like someone hurt and kind. She was loved by Jesus; that must have meant something.
They wanted to stone her like other women in the Bible, but Jesus saved her because everyone has sinned; no one is free from sin. Being stoned hurts. They threw stones at him at school and only backed down when Alfred arrived.
Jesus would save him; that's what he wants to believe. Mary, Jesus's mother, would also hug him and be kind. She had been kind to that nun at the convent to whom she gave a medal, as Nonna told him.
"Nonno," he says after praying that night and after his Nonna has left, "if God created us the way He wanted us to be... why do people call homosexuals sinners?"
His grandfather remains silent, afraid of the answer. He shouldn't have asked; questioning is dangerous.
"Simon, my boy," his grandfather approaches, "you know we'll love you no matter what, right?"
"Yes," he replies, confused. "What does that have to do with my question?"
His grandfather laughs and places his hand on his shoulder.
"Nothing," the man smiles at him, and he looks at him. "But to answer your question, people don't like what's different, what they call weird."
"I know," he fidgets with his hands. "The kids at school tell me that all the time."
I believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.
"He's sensitive," the adults say.
He looks at the photos one of the city girls brought. He looks at something much more like the magazines the older boys bring. Much more skin, so much more. It feels strange.
I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son.
"Sissy," one of his classmates says.
The magazines have strange poses; he can understand how the bodies fit together. He finally understands certain obscene gestures.
"Where did you get this?" a girl asks one of the teenagers.
"At a store in the city."
Everyone exclaims when they hear there's more of this in the city. All kinds: magazines with explicit images, scantily clad or nude, with bodies colliding. The girl shows several magazines; one has more men than the rest, much more extravagant.
The girl turns a page. He's the only guy the girls invited, saying that if it was just girls, people would say weird things, and being with a guy, especially Simon, who, although odd, is well-behaved, would make fewer people suspect they were there for something dirty.
"It's hard to get these kinds of magazines," the girl says, turning the page, and everyone gasps. Simon approaches and looks at the image just before the girl takes it away. "Magazines for weird guys usually have good pictures of guys."
The girl explains disdainfully.
Weirdo, inverted.
Conceived by the grace of the Holy Spirit.
"You're a little weird," one of the girls told him a while ago.
The photo was of two men kissing. He feels the girls' eyes on him. He looks at the ground, it feels strange, he knows they're watching him. He doesn't want to know why.
"Can boys kiss each other?" Brittany asks curiously.
"No, they're sick, they're disgusting," the older girl smiles, "although they do take good pictures."
Everyone laughs. He feels Brittany's hand on his shoulder and thinks he sees in her face the same expression as the statues of Mary. He sees piety before he has to look away.
Born of the Virgin Mary,
The prayer is easy to say; he tries to ask for forgiveness, realizing the obvious, what everyone knows before he does. He can't finish praying that night, but instead cries silently.
"I'm amazing, aren't I?" Alfred asks excitedly.
His friend lets the electricity flow and dissipates it into the air. They are alone; he doesn't know why he can't breathe properly, except that he has to tell someone because he's been praying the rosary with Nonna every night, and his grandmother is happy that he's interested in religion.
Simon will go to hell, but his family won't.
"Simon, is something wrong?"
He looks at Alfred, his friend. Alfred, who wants to be a hero. A hero should save and help everyone, even sinners. Right?
He prays fervently, not knowing what he's asking for, maybe not to go to hell, maybe that's all he's asking for.
"I…" He looks at the ground, closes his eyes, "I have to tell you something."
"Have you finally decided to be a hero?" the voice sounds cheerful, sounds so happy
"Alfred… I…" he feels the leather tear from his fingers, they hold it firm, he wants to vomit "I… I think… Peter is attractive"
He wants to vomit, he's going to vomit
"Peter?" Alfred's voice is strange.
He doesn't dare look at him.
"I... I can't help it," his breath catches in his throat, "I think he's handsome." He can't breathe. "Boys seem..." God, he's going to throw up.
"Simon."
"I'm bad." Tears fall into his closed eyes; he doesn't wipe them away. His nails tear at the skin of his other hand.
"Simon!"
He feels Alfred's hands on him. He looks at him. Alfred doesn't look at him with hatred, not even with pity.
"I…"
"It's okay, I'm here."
Alfred hugs him. A warm, gentle hug, and he collapses, sobbing uncontrollably. Alfred tells him it's okay, that he's always been a strange boy, that nothing can separate them.
"You have terrible taste. Peter is an idiot."
He hugs his knees, both of them sitting after what feels like hours. He doesn't look at Alfred, but he feels light. Alfred has never cared about sins or sinners; perhaps that's why he doesn't care that Simon is this.
"He's not an idiot," he replies, embarrassed, still scared. "He's kind."
"Nah, he's an idiot, you're just slow to notice. There are better options." He doesn't understand how Alfred can speak like this, without fear.
"Like who?" he whispers, hugging his knees tighter.
Alfred doesn't answer.
He goes to the church, enters the confessional of a religion that, although similar to his own, isn't his, and for the first time, he truly confesses.
The priest is calm; he doesn't criticize him for crying, he doesn't say anything about his sinful thoughts, he just listens, and when he finishes, with a trembling voice, Simon asks what he should do, asks how he should be punished.
The Virgin Mary gazes at him in his home; the statues of his grandmother had never been so prominent in his life.
The statue of Jesus gazes at him in the church.
Everyone looks at him and knows he's sick. It's not true, they think he's sick. If they knew, they'd throw more rocks at him. If they were sure, they'd kill him like in the movies, like when they killed a homosexual who finally had the courage to speak out.
The priest tells him one simple thing.
"Love is not a sin."
"But…"
"Who did Jesus go out with? Who did he talk and dance with?"
"With the... sinners."
"He told them not to do evil, he told them to love, to enjoy life."
Tears stream down his cheeks.
That man saved him, and he'll never thank him. When he leaves his first home amidst a whirlwind of events, he won't look back, he'll never return.
"There are more in the cities," Alfred tells him one day, "more like you."
Alfred's gaze is kind, even gentle. Simon doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He's tired and feels bad for feeling bad, for feeling good, for feeling confused. Jesus loves sinners; he would love him. Mary was even kinder than her son.
It is not a sin to love.
"We could go to the city, not just for the heroic reasons, you could meet more people... like you."
He never says "homosexual," not even when they're alone. It's okay, Simon can't say "homosexual" or "super" without feeling like he's going to die and a burning sensation in his arms. He doesn't know why they burn, but he rubs them when the feeling comes.
When his hands itch, he picks at his nails or sometimes eats them. Nonna puts hot sauce on his nails to make him stop. Nonno tells him to play with the fabric of his pants or shirt and not with his flesh.
Nonna isn't home, and Nonno is at work. He goes into his grandmother's room with her statuettes of the Virgin Mary, takes one he likes in his hands and sets it aside, and kneels down.
"Ave, o Maria, piena di grazia,"
The prayer is something he knows by heart. He doesn't know if God exists, only that He gives rules that must be followed.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to the statue as he finishes his sentence. "I'm sorry."
The statue doesn't understand what he's apologizing for.
"I can't believe in you."
He knows why.
"I don't want to go to hell."
He packs a suitcase, a suitcase ready to escape if everything ever comes to light. Nonno might help him, but he doesn't know if Nonna would. God must be loved above all things. Why would she defend him?
Nonna might try to fix him.
Simon doesn't know why he doesn't want to be fixed.
He can't go to hell if there isn't a heaven.
He can't be a sinner for existing if God doesn't exist.
He continues praying with his grandmother, continues listening to the teachings, and goes to a church that isn't his to observe the fearful eyes of Jesus, which for the first time seem kind and understanding.
Simon is Catholic, or so he believes. When he eats the body and blood of Jesus, he doesn't feel enlightened, but when he sees the statue of Jesus and Mary, he no longer fears their eyes but appreciates the sculptor's art.
He is thirteen years old and has a suitcase ready to escape.
Because sometimes they throw stones at him, because he can barely pass his exams without setting them on fire, because his skin burns in the summer and when it snows he wants to die, because Alfred wants to be a hero in the city and he will always follow Alfred like a disciple.
He is thirteen years old and is walking to the edge of town with Alfred. His best friend is holding his hand and smiling at him.
Someday he will hold another man's hand, and it won't just be as friends.
Nonna turned off the radio while she listened to another radio drama. The man in the episode was queer and said so explicitly. He didn't know it was possible to live without guilt. He didn't know it was possible to say it out loud.
Simon isn't brave enough to say it, but there are those who are.
"In a couple of years we can leave without anyone looking for us," Alfred says, as if making a promise.
Simon nods and begs, doesn't pray, for time to pass quickly. To leave, to escape, and maybe, just maybe, to begin to live.
He continues to pray with Nonna, but he no longer goes to church. He continues to pray with Nonna, but he no longer listens to the Bible. He continues to pray with Nonna and helps her dust all the statues of the Virgin Mary. He no longer uses a rosary.
He doesn't know if he believes in God.
If he does, he hopes that God loves him as He is supposed to love all His children.
Nonna insists on continuing to read to him, and so he begins to listen to classic books. He begins to try harder in language class. The teacher doesn't hate him, but she seems to know that Simon is stupid and tries to help. Simon still doesn't understand her.
She teachs about types of plots, about a hero's journey. Simon doubts that he can have that in life.
He doesn't understand the books and doesn't know that when he grows up he will be a hero.
When Simon is older and knows what to think about religion, when he is older and has accepted each of his quirks without guilt for existing, but with guilt for his actions. When his life has a calmer, but not monotonous, rhythm.
When that happens, the love of his life will read him an article about a writing book while they both hold each other's warmth.
"There are only two plots: A stranger arrives in town and A man embarks on a journey," the man reads in his husky voice. "I'm sure stories have many more plots," Sebastian whispers with a touch of indignation.
Simon laughs comfortably in his arms and touches the rosary beneath his shirt, a habit he hasn't been able to break, after all.
"Really?" he asks, amused by the fire hero's reaction. "Like what?"
"A man falls in love," Sebastian says, pulling him closer, his voice soft and gentle.
"But he falls in love because he's embarked on a journey," he adds, rolling his eyes.
"Well, maybe," Sebastian agrees, kissing his forehead.
He likes to contradict, likes to be right. Sebastian likes to be questioned, likes to analyze.
"If your life were a story," the man says thoughtfully, "what do you think is the plot that started it all?" Sebastian looks at him, and Simon stares for a few seconds longer. "Because mine is about a man embarking on a journey. If I hadn't moved, I never would have met you."
The words are sweet, but he doesn't like the question.
In the darkest corner of his mind, where all the horrors of his life reside—from those a normal person might experience (discrimination, persecution, loss) to those only someone like him could (the island, the future, the villains, the blood)—lies the answer to the question.
Simon just curls up tighter; he doesn't want to think about it.
"What does the rest of the article say?" he asks.
Sebastian keeps reading, knowing his partner doesn't want to discuss the topic. They'll probably talk about it later. It's never good when they stop talking about their problems; in fact, that's usually how their problems begin, which is why it took them so long to start dating.
Sebastian knows what happened. He finally told him, and decades have passed since then, but some things are hard to forget. Even with all the other traumas, he doesn't know if that one really matters. It was a cruel beginning.
When Simon was fourteen, a stranger arrived in town.