To say that “Aunt Teresa’s Home for Wayward Youth and The Criminally Insane” was a nicer place to grow up than the name implied would have been a mistruth. In truth, it was no picnic (though, there were ants) with the presumption of guilt though his only crime was being left an orphan. Not quite a capital crime but one that left him with no capital with which to improve his situation.

The food was Dickensian, literally, pulped penny dreadfuls mixed with the tears of orphans and offered up one scoop at a time. It’s one saving grace were the occasional chunks of indigestible dialogue, threads of speech left in their complete or near complete state that could be extracted from the pulpy mess of breakfast and become the topic of discussion for the day. Worst book club, ever. Period.