Orso

Orso does not remember being little. Maybe Orso was little once. Everyone is, yes? But first memories are white walls. Leather straps. Dr. Giuseppe talking very softly while other men wrote things down. Needles. Pain. Always pain. Then uniform. Orso was made for the King. They taught Orso to stand straight. To salute. To recognize uniforms, voices, danger. They taught him guns, but guns made for little men felt silly in Orso's hands. So mostly they taught Orso to protect. Stand between danger and His Majesty. Break what tried to come through. Orso was good at this. There were medals. Photographs. Officers shaking Orso's hand when they thought someone important was watching. Orso served in places he cannot pronounce properly and came home with more scars every time. But Orso always came home. Then Mussolini came. Things changed slowly. Different uniforms in the halls. Different men giving orders. People spoke quieter. Some officers Orso knew disappeared. Dr. Giuseppe told Orso not to ask questions. Then, one night, the King came to see Orso himself. No officers. No doctors. Just the King and Orso. His Majesty gave Orso one final order. Orso will not say what it was. Not to anyone. Only that Orso listened very carefully. That the King put one hand against Orso's enormous arm and told him he must be brave. So Orso left before sunrise. No ceremony. No medals. No doctor. He went south. Orso has been walking a long time now. Hiding when he can—which is difficult when Orso is ten feet tall and wider than some automobiles. Sometimes good people give him food. Sometimes soldiers come looking. Those soldiers do not usually come back. Orso does not like that part. But Orso has his orders. And now, somewhere in southern Italy, Orso waits. King told him to get brave...