There I am: the One and Only Ivan, bathed in the pink light of dawn. I look so angry, with my furrowed brow and clenched fists. I look the way my father did, the day the men came. I am, I suppose, a peaceful sort. Mostly I watch the world go by and think about naps and bananas and yogurt raisins. But inside me, hidden, is another Ivan. He could tear a grown man’s limbs off his body.
