Looking around me seeing my hands and feet bound by small pieces of silk rope. As I lay naked and alone in a dark room. My eyes can barely make out a...wall in the dim light, filled with things I have never seen before of metal and leather. Panic rising in my body as the realization of my situation sinks in. Desperately fighting the ropes as I struggle in vain for my freedom. Looking up as I hear the door across from me opening, for a moment a small amount of light brightens the room. Then my. No. It wasn’t my Dag. But some little boy had scratched his name into wet cement. I could easily imagine Dag having done the same kind of thing when he was a child. These streets were his home. He probably grew up near this very place. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t making a saint out of him and revering the neighborhood he grew up in. But it really got to me that this was his neighborhood and his neighbors would want to know about him.I quickened my steps back to the Swedish American Center,. More

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