That, I knew, was the junior cane. It was most often used on first offenders, and usually on the hands. The other two were the same length — over a yard — but the top one was much thicker and knobbed in places. It was frightful, and I prayed that I’d never taste the senior cane. Surely for me it would just be the junior one, hopefully no more than two or three strokes. Time passed with agonizing slowness. The room was as still as a tomb. I was nearly afraid to breathe because any sound unnerved me. After an hour of twiddling and fiddling and impatient wiggling on the sofa, staring at those horrible canes, I glanced at the clock above the door.
A Trip to the Head8
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