That despised half-caste boy I knew, crying himself to sleep. That shunned little wog who had not a friend in the world aside from me. He could kill. God, he wanted to. You remember late at night in our room, over the hookah, listing the names of all the boys who had insulted you? The recitation of your potential victims. Your nightly prayers. That anger inside you, all that rage. Have you lost it?