Cody covered his contorted face and sobbed briefly, but no tears.
Brandi’s arms and shoulders ached, her wrists burned and her face hot-flashed. Now she knew why Cody never laughed. She knelt in front of him, placed her hands, wet from her crying, into his palms and prayed that the worst was over.
Cody gathered himself. “The mob started chanting again — prolly the only English words they knew — ‘Death to America. Death to Americans.’ They dragged me across the street. That’s when I saw the other children in a holding cell — about thirty of ‘em — mostly boys, a few girls.”
Brandi’s chest throbbed. She wanted him to stop, but couldn’t say a word.
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