He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he ... [+]
Anthony and DeAndre stood in the snack line studying the menu. They'd stared at its sun-bleached images of ice cream and chips every day so far this school year. It was a ritual, matching their mood with the right snack.Almost every head in line had straight hair - some gelled and parted, some uncombed, still, others styled to an exacting degree. That is, all but the hi-top fade on DeAndre, a style that often drew attention, and, as on this day, not all of it wanted."Hey LeBron!" A shout came from the back of the line.Anthony and DeAndre recognized the voice. It was Ricky, an eighth-grade mena