The Boy Behind the Fence

Everyday I would walk with my dad to the smoke stacks. He dressed up and I held his hand as we passed the shacks. I never understood what was happening there. I just knew that I should never ask if it was fair. Each day we took the same path, it was intense. I always saw the same boy sitting behind the fence. Walking pass I would always smile, but he didn't care. He never smiled back, he just looked at me with a blank stare. I wanted to make friends with him so I snuck him things to eat. After a few times he smiled and I knew he like the treat. From there a small but powerful friendship did grow. One in which we couldn't tell anyone, no one could know. After a couple years we began to get close to one another. Being an only child, he was the closest thing I had to a brother. We were both only eight years old, we loved to joke and play. I thought I did something wrong, he never showed up after that day. I walked by the fence, but after a couple weeks he wouldn't be back. I thought maybe he liked it more inside with the smoke stacks. I never forgot him, my grandpa wrote in a diary as I read it under the lamp. I don't know what happened to him, I like to think he walked out of the camp.