Bowman Wood
Fourteen, almost fifteen-year-old Jerrod Whitney sat on the bottom step of the back porch bored out of his skull. In the fashion typical of early adolescence, he was wallowing in self-pity, partly because he�d been practically booted out the door by his mom when she�d had enough of hearing him whine about having nothing to do, and partly because he couldn�t think of anything to do. After listening to him complain all morning, Mrs. Whitney finally threw up her hands and yelled, �For pity�s sake,...