“Oh, I hate — hate — hate,” he sang. “I hate the walls and the doors that lock and the people who shove you in. I hate the tears and the angry words and I’ll kill them all with my little hatchet and hammer their bones and spit on them.” He reached down in the sand, picked up a toy soldier, pounded it with the rubber hatchet, spit on it. “I spit in your face. I spit in your eye. I gouge your head down deep in the sand,” he sang. His voice rang out, sweetly and clearly. “And the birds do fly from the east to the west and it is a bird that I want to be. Then I’ll fly away over the walls, out the
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