I can smell the cooked lamb up the stairs. In our small boot camp near the river, all there is discipline. All us kids are starved till we are on our knees weeping and crying, our pink lips dry. I’m starving. As I reach the top step, the smell gets stronger. My mouth waters. Suddenly I hear footsteps. The chef! Desperately, I hide in the cleaner’s closet. I am so nervous. The footsteps pass me. I creep out, and there it is, glistening in the light. Lamb stew.
“Hey!” A voice yells behind me. Shoot!
I grab the plate and run.