Episode 121 Previous Episode	Next Episode
Shadows of the Past With a loud bang, the kitchen door slammed shut. The small boy, no more than eight, came running in, his arms scraped up badly. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he yelled “MOM!” He rushed up to the kitchen counter, barely able to reach the faucet to turn on the water. He stuck his arms into the running cold, wincing as it washed over his injuries. A second later, a middle-aged woman in a tan business suit came running into the kitchen. She saw the little boy and exclaimed, “Franklin!” in horror. She knelt down next to him, helping him wash the pain from his arms. “What happened?” she asked. “Where’s Morgan?” “He’s still at the playground,” he said, crying a little. “Some boys, some older boys, they, they…” He looked up at her. “Morgan’s still down there.” The blue car skidded to a halt at the edge of the parking lot. Franklin was scrambling out of from the passenger’s side before the car was fully still. Running alongside the busy street, a long playground had been built into an old aqueduct. Steep, concrete slopes ran along either side while running along the spacious playground were several tennis and basketball courts surrounded by mesh fencing. Franklin sprinted down the long, multi-tiered stairway that descended a story and a half down to the playground. Behind him, is stepmother raced as best she could, keeping steady on the red-painted iron railings. Ahead of them both, on the central basketball court, in broad daylight, they could see the last efforts of an utter brawl. In the middle of the court, Morgan, only a few years older than Franklin, was mounted on top of a middle school boy, his fist covered in dried blood as he clutched the boy’s collar. He drew his free hand, punching the boy in the face again, spreading more blood over the pavement. As Franklin and his stepmother rushed to the court’s entrance, another boy, an 8^th or 9^th grader, tackled Morgan from the side, knocking him off his friend. Both boys’ faces were covered in blood, but Morgan’s was more than just his own. As they stopped rolling, the boy tried to pin Morgan to the ground, but he wrapped his legs around the older boy’s arm and caught it against his body. Flexing his hips, he hyperextended the boy’s elbow, making him yelp in pain. “Morgan!” his stepmother yelled, throwing open the fence. Morgan saw her coming and released the hold, letting the older boy whimper away. He sniffed back the blood coming out of his nose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood, ignoring the four boys sprawled out on the basketball court. He turned away; sniffing back tears this time as he limped towards his stepmother. “What happened?!” she demanded, mortified at the scene of the fight. “They started it,” Morgan insisted. “Franklin and some of the other guys were playing basketball and they came out and took Franklin’s basketball and started picking on them.” “And so you decided to attack them?” she insisted, unable to control her emotions. “They deserved it!” he yelled back, gesturing to the boys. “They were picking on Franklin. They were picking on our friends.” “Morgan, when there’s trouble you go and get a grown-up,” she said, kneeling down in front of him. “I run away and let someone else fight my fight?” he asked, staring unashamedly at her. “They got what they deserved.” He tried to walk past her, but his left ankle gave. He winced, but refused to call out, catching himself on the fence surrounding the basketball courts. His stepmother and Franklin both turned as he tried in vain to limp up the steps. They both watched. His stepmother looked back at the other boys, seeing them all groaning, only now beginning to get to their feet. Some held their arms, nursing serious-looking injuries. Franklin, meanwhile, watched his brother ascend the stairs one agonizing step at a time. “Morgan,” he whispered, unsure what to say.
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