Billy was the shortest boy in school, always fell to the back of the line, dragged his feet like they were anchors. His bangs covered his eyes and blocked his view. His frown was all you ever saw of his face. He hardly ever talked and the teacher gave up calling on him. What was the point? Billy walked around aimlessly, like he had nowhere to belong.
Some say his dad never died in the war, but ran off to the Mediterranean with another woman, left his mom for a cave on an island with blue sand. Either way, he was gone.
One day there was a lightning storm and the school was tossed into chaos as the thunder pounded like horse hooves, on the roof, and in the yard, they say a bolt went right through Billy’s shoe, and his hair stood out a foot from his head, like the bride of Frankenstein, and his eyes got wide like gutted fish bellies. After that he gave up talking altogether. A living zombie.
Billy just had bad luck, they said.