The only way I start to understand it is by looking past the surface of the violence, into the packs of brawling gangsters, to see my friend and brother Juice, who was just like me in ways that we both recognized but could not articulate. We both knew he was smarter than he let on. We knew that he never complained about the nights he and his older brother slept in the park, nowhere else to go. And we knew—or I know now—that beneath the mask of viciousness, Juice was just a little boy. We were all just little boys, you know. Somebody must have forgotten that. Forgotten us. So we found each
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