The Meadow 149 stairs, and then walk along the balcony, the sound of radios and human voices from the dorms assault my ears. I insert my key into the lock of room number thirty-one—my age in less than a month. The fan from the wall heater grates against my eardrums. Sometimes the heat in my room stops working, and then just starts up again on its own. I have put in a repair-request with the head of maintenance, Paul Blocker, but so far my heater has not gotten repaired or replaced. No racing tomorrow, Christmas Day, no Anthems to sing, I remind myself as I fall asleep on the mattress in the corner. Two hours later, I wake up, but lie in bed another half hour before pushing myself up from the mattress. I strip down to my underwear, cover myself with a thick blue bathrobe, and then grab a soap and towel. As I close the door and lock it behind me, the wind hits me immediately. It penetrates my bathrobe, freezing my legs and arms. I keep my hand on the banister as I head for one of two bathrooms serving the twenty-five rooms in my quadrant. During the shower, when I am not peeking out from the curtain to make sure no one has entered, I try to take my mind off the memory of feeding Mary’s Child a peppermint from my open hand. Less than an hour later I am standing in my room warming up my voice by singing up and down the scale in preparation for the Christmas Eve services to be held in a small hall next to the backstretch kitchen. After sliding my legs through a pair of jeans, I slip a hooded gray sweat shirt over my head and zip it up just short of my Adams apple. I open my mouth and release a C note just to make sure my larynx has enough space behind the pressure of the zipper. I close and lock my door. Carefully, I climb down the frozen metal stairs. Walking against a wind blasting from the northwest, I tilt my head in the same direction as the old man sitting on that high stool in the grand stand, reading his racing form
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