He sits there like a hard boiled egg, undistinguished from the raw recruits with whom he shares partitioned space encompassing his own.
His insides are solidified, formed and rigid to the rigors of the waiting game of time and choice and plucking from the carton, feeling safe. But his armor hasn’t hardened any more than those young chicks-to-be who do not know their eager peeps are frozen into place.
Waiting, waiting for the shell to crack.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology