Whelp

Начало книги

It was late at night, and the seven-year-old boy crouched in a corner of the yard, dressed only in underpants and an old, tatty tee shirt of his cousin Dudley's. And a dog collar. It had been warm this afternoon, when Uncle Vernon had put the length of chain around his neck and hooked it to a lead line attached to the shed. But now it was cold, and he wanted nothing more than to be just hungry, like before, and lying in his cupboard under the stairs. Instead, he was cold, and wet, and very tired. And maybe a little scared, too. He brought his knees up to his chest and clutched them tight, rested his head on them and tried not to think about what had brought him to this.

Trying not to think about something never worked, though. He'd figured that one out a long, long time ago.

Flashback

"Boy! Get in here, now!"

They always called him "boy." That is, when they called him anything at all. Mostly, he could tell when they were talking to him by the tone of voice they used. Each of them used the same tone when ordering him to do something, or not do something, and rarely spoke to him otherwise.

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