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by Rivers Solomon

First of all, I’m going to ask you to stay Ezri. Stay this you who you are right now, the you who seems to hold all these ghosts. And then, I want you to tell me what you’d do next, what would you do next to the poor Omelas child from Le Guin’s short story? I’d wash him, like I said. He’s a little boy. A rough-and-tumble wild boy. Not anymore. He’s atrophied. He has skin infections. Bones that have healed wrong after fractures. He’s in a lot of pain. He’s blank. Blank faced. Turned off. But I pour a pitcher of water over his matted hair. Another. Pour half a bottle of conditioner in it. The same kind I use. Generic fragrance-free, giant bottle. You get your money’s worth, you know? I use my fingers to unpick the giant mats and locs. Occasionally, I have to use scissors, but I avoid it where I can. Because this boy’s strength is in his hair. It’s a testament to all he’s been through. It’s been with him since he was born. It takes hours and hours to detangle. A clump of hair—casualties to the combs and brushes I’ve used—big as a small critter—sits next to us. The boy— Does he have a name? No. They never named him in Omelas. Would you like to? Maybe, yes. After he’s clean, I put him in one of my old T-shirts. He takes the ball of hair and pets it. I’ve rinsed it out and dried it, tied it into a little ball. He’s still not talking. Or reacting. It’s okay if he never does. I tell him that, even though I’m not sure he hears me, or understands. I carry him to his bed, which is my...