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,...