His name was David. He was 10 years old and, to put it bluntly, compellingly weird—especially in the buttoned-down, groomed normality of suburban Long Island in the early 1960s. At the time, Michael Wigler was a ninth-grade student in Garden City, and he liked to hang out at the home of his girlfriend. That’s where he encountered David, her younger brother. Half a century later, he still can’t get the boy out of his mind.
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