He remembered the green beans.
If he could have poked his eyes out with ‘em, he would have.
Chip was aware, in a general sort of way that now they’d called it mental illness.
He had heard people talk about it at meetings he didn’t want to be at in churches he didn’t belong in, in towns he couldn’t remember the name of.
Back then, when the food on the plate was the enemy, they just said he was a picky eater, and extra fussy, and even a spoiled brat, though none of the kids in Howie Pelicki’s house were the least bit spoiled.
Howie took the belt to him a couple times for not eating.
Right at the table, worn brown leather across the face.
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