"Your back!" yelled Bilal, spotting the gun as a minivan skidded around the corner. Its ass-end clipped a bag-lady's cart, scattering cans and a tumble of trash. The old woman might have seen the gun but shook her fist and cursed anyway. The driver almost lost it, but then recovered sloppily and smoked the van to a stop.

Devon had his I-pod cranked, about to go into the liquor store to buy a candy bar. He might have heard Bilal, or maybe just the squeal of tires. Bilal was diving for the ground but tried a desperate tackle.

The AK hammered full-auto, spewing yellow flame and smoke that almost hid the monkey face. Bullets hissed above Bilal as he slammed to dirty concrete. Instinct screamed to hide his head, but he made a grab for Devon's legs.

He felt the bullets hitting Devon, tearing into flesh and bone, slamming Devon backward. The liquor store window rippled like a puddle on a windy day, then morphed into a waterfall and gushed between its bars. Something hit the sidewalk amid the falling glass... Devon's I-pod blown apart. Devon followed seconds later, crashing half atop Bilal who sprawled with chest to pavement. Both were shirtless after school and Devon's blood felt like hot water pouring over Bilal's bare back. The AK hammered, muzzle dropping, monkey face behind it snarling, bullets blasting concrete chips, searching for Bilal.

Bilal snapped awake. But this wasn't the dream he'd been having! He heard the same echoes of screaming tires, the same steely stutter of full-auto fire, but it was his window exploding! Crystal razors sprayed the room, slashing over his naked body. Bullets tore into the walls, ripping holes in his movie posters, breaking the backs of his books on the shelves and puffing shredded paper. The clock on his nightstand tumbled away in a burst of jagged plastic, trailing its cord like a wriggling tail. Then his lamp followed, blown apart. A shelf above the bed collapsed, raining books and broken things. Bilal flung himself to the floor. Would the clip run out again before the bullets found him?

As if in answer to a prayer the AK fire cut off. But then another took its place as if they were running a relay. Glass in the living room shattered.

"Grandpa! Jadd!" Bilal scuttled doglike into the hall as bullets blasted the front of the house, drilling the interior walls and slashing the air above his head. Chunks of plaster spattered his back as he scrambled along on his hands and knees like a rugrat being cluster-bombed. "Jadd!" he yelled again.

Once more the gunfire suddenly stopped with the tinny clank of a clip running out. An engine revved and tires burned. A car went squealing up the street as Bilal reached the living room doorway. For a second there was silence, as if the 'hood was holding its breath and wondering who would be next. Then, the soundtrack faded back in... a few dogs barking down the block, a siren yelping, coming fast. Bilal's grandfather lay on his mat, facing the rosy glow of dawn that turned broken glass into spatters of blood across the Persian carpet.

"Jadd!" Bilal leaped up and ran to the man.

"Be at peace," his grandfather murmured, turning slowly to face Bilal.

Bilal was panting for breath, as if he'd run the middle-school mile. His cheeks were suddenly hot with tears that felt somehow like Devon's blood. He almost puffed a prayer of thanks. "Are you all right?" he asked instead, kneeling beside his grandfather.

"Another war of terror," murmured Jadd Taimur.

Bilal almost spit on the floor. "Monkey-boys with guns!" he snarled, glaring out through fangs of glass where dawn was painting the neighborhood with kinder shades of soft pastels, turning rust to mellow gold and grimy grays to silver. The siren's cry was nearing from many blocks away. He looked around the living room at bullet-torn pictures on bullet-pocked walls of bullet-ripped villages in Sudan. A chair and the sofa were leaking cotton; the TV stared like a jagged skull eye at a shattered vase in a pool of flowers, and the lamp he'd once thought had belonged to Aladdin was brightly bleeding scented oil. "Are you all right?" he asked again.

Bilal's grandfather sat up slowly, a slender man of eighty-three years with skin of a deep mahogany shade and hair of iron gray. Daggers of glass made musical sounds as they scattered the floor around him. "Other than having my prayer interrupted." His coffee-brown eyes ran over Bilal, as naked as his birthing day except for Devon's sliver chain around his midnight neck. "Are you all right, my grandson?"

Bilal became aware of pain; there were cuts on his chest, a few on his arms, but nothing that would kill him; no wounds like Jadd Taimur had suffered many years ago. No bloody bullet holes like Devon. "Yeah," he said, then added, "I'm sure Allah will understand about your mornin' prayer."

"On whose name be praise."

"...Yeah," said Bilal. "You sure you're okay?"

"I have lived through worse, by Allah's mercy."

"On whose name be praise," said Bilal. It was automatic, like saying wassup when somebody said yo.

A second siren had joined the first, squalling distantly. The barking dogs began to howl. Tires squealed around a corner... a heavy-ass car, probably cops. Bilal looked out past shredded drapes that gently swayed in a salt-scented breeze. "I give 'em another three minutes."

He rose to scan the empty street where scabby faces of shabby houses stared with blind and curtained eyes. A shade twitched warily here and there, but nobody wanted to witness. Or be suspected of witnessing. He tried to still his panting breaths and listen for sounds of danger -- a car approaching stealthily, coming back to finish the job -- but the dogs only howled as the sirens neared. He spit through a broken window. "Plenty of time for another roll-up, but the monkeys probably don't got the balls."

"We were warned the police would not always be here," Jadd Taimur said as Bilal helped him rise. More bits of glass rained off his robe to sparkle the floor like junk-shop jewels.

Bilal snorted. "They warned us about a lot of things... after they got what they wanted from me!"

"You did what any good man would do."

"...Yeah," said Bilal then added, "Be careful," though Jadd wore African sandals. Something sliced the sole of his foot as he picked up his grandfather's walking staff and led him into the kitchen. The kitchen window was still in one piece, but that probably hadn't been luck; the monkeys had known when he'd be in his room. And probably when his grandfather prayed.

A black-and-white smoked to a stop at the curb as Bilal eased his grandfather down on a chair at the kitchen table already set with a bowl and a box of Count Chocula. The ruby and blue of the car's flashing strobes were dim against the growing day. Its siren cut off, leaving still-howling dogs and the second siren approaching. Heavy boots trampled the porch. Then a fist pounded the door... which was stupid because it was half blown apart. "Oakland police!"

Bilal almost yelled Duh!, but called instead, "Don't break it down. ...What's left, anyhow." He realized he was naked, but didn't give a shit. He stopped in the kitchen doorway, scanning the glittering razors of glass that mined the living room floor. His grandfather offered, "Take my sandals."

Bilal only murmured, "I'm okay," and carelessly went to unlock the door.

The cops were a typical West Oakland team, one almost as black as Bilal, thirty-something and butterball fat, his belly pouring over his belt. The other was blue-eyed and still fairly ripped, early twenties and new to the street, usually letting his partner interpret the baby-talk language of thugs. They had their guns out, and Bilal couldn't hold that against them.

"Jesus!" muttered the white cop as Bilal pulled the splintered door open, sweeping aside a fan of glass. "This looks like Iraq!"

"My grandfather's from Sudan," said Bilal.

"I meant the mess," the cop corrected, scanning the bullet-trashed room. "Not the middle-eastern stuff."

"Sudan is in Africa," said Bilal.

"...Oh." The cop seemed to notice Bilal's nakedness but caught himself before looking surprised.

"You cool, little bro?" asked the black, as if naked kids and bullet holes were just a part of life.

"Yeah," said Bilal as the cops crunched in. "My grandfather's okay, too."

"Thank the Good Lord!" sighed the black. He'd had this watch for two weeks now, ever since the trial; and he'd been the cop who'd saved Bilal, off-duty but packing his Glock -- only a fool wouldn't pack if he could -- on his way to the liquor store to buy a sixer of beer. He'd had more balls than all the monkeys, dropping and drilling their van a few times, his only cover the bag-lady's cart... after he'd shoved her into a doorway where she had continued to curse.

A real man would have reloaded, capped the cop, then finished Bilal. ...And probably offed the bag-lady, too. But the monkey-boys had squealed away, their tails between their wheels. Too bad the cop hadn't seen their faces... the bag-lady swore they were Little Grays on a mission of intergalactic terror. Bilal often brought him coffee, the strong, thick brew his grandfather made, and sometimes a box of Safeway donuts while he sat overnight in his car. His name was Akeem but he was a Christian. He wasn't fanatic about it, though he'd given Bilal a Bible last week. But he probably gave everyone Bibles. At least anybody he thought could be saved.

"We had to leave," said Akeem, looking a little embarrassed, an expression you seldom saw on a cop. "Sorry, little bro."

The white, named Mark, was looking a left-out, like people do when other people are speaking a different language. He added, "Somebody shot up a liquor store over on Adeline Street. We were the closest unit."

"It was probably them," said Akeem, snapping the strap on his holster. "To get us away from your house."

Bilal only shrugged. "Monkeys know their jungle."

"Monkeys?" asked Mark. "I thought the gang was called the Dubs."

"They're all monkeys to me!" Bilal, glared around at the wreckage again. "Stupid monkey-boys with guns!"

Akeem frowned slightly. "If you'd come up in this neighborhood you might be a little respectfully scared."

Bilal's eyes narrowed. "Don't gimmie that 'code of the 'hood' bullshit! I'm scared of dogs with rabies 'cause they're sick an' dangerous like Cujo in the movie, but I sure as hell don't respect 'em!"

A fang of glass dropped from a window frame, and Mark spun around, gripping his gun. Akeem chuckled. "Chill out, dawg."

Bilal's grandfather came in from the kitchen, his sandals making potato chip sounds, his staff gently thumping the floor. "Would you gentlemen like coffee?"

Mark hesitated, but Akeem smiled and said, "Thank you, sir."

An ambulance rolled up outside. Akeem's quick eyes ran over Bilal, noting the cuts on his chest and arms, and a trickle of blood spreading under a foot. "Better have 'em check you out. An' maybe your grandfather, too."

"Not if we gotta pay!" snapped Bilal. He realized again he was naked, but crossed his arms over his chest and stood proud.

"I don't know about that, little bro."

"We didn't call it, an' we're not gonna pay for it!"

The EMTs were on the porch, both white, a man and a woman, peering in past the half-shattered door, their medical boxes in hand. Akeem faced them. "Nobody's hurt. Bill the department."

"You don't have the authority..." the woman EMT began.

"Neither do you," growled Akeem. "So let the computers fight about it."

The EMTs traded glances, then shrugged and returned to their idling truck. Akeem spoke into his radio mike, advising someone about something as Bilal's grandfather reappeared with two small porcelain cups. The rich scent of coffee seemed to banish the stink of hot lead in the air.

"Thank you, sir," said Akeem, accepting a cup and sipping. Mark echoed him, then added surprised, "This is good, Mr. Jadd."

Akeem murmured, "Jadd means grandfather in Arabic. His name is Taimur."

"Oh," said Mark. "It's very good coffee, Mr. Taimur."

Jadd smiled and bowed. "Thank you. And welcome to my home."

What's left, anyway, thought Bilal.

He noticed a few of the braver neighbors gathering on the cracked sidewalk beyond the house's little lawn and narrow strip of flowerbed. Bilal mowed the lawn on Saturday mornings, pushing an ancient clattering thing that burned his sweat instead of gas, and picked the trash out of the flowers almost every day. He saw an elderly, bathrobed woman, Mrs. Turner, a few houses down, the neighborhood candy lady who also baked delicious pies... sweet-potato with real whipped-cream. Hers was the only name he knew, though he'd often seen the other faces. A man had a pit-bull on a chain, and Bilal watched it piss on the flowers. There was also a handful of kids with packs on their way to school. Some were pointing at bullet-holes and probably guessing the type of gun by the scatter of brass in the street.

"Dammit!" muttered Akeem, as several boys grabbed souvenirs. "Mark, get those back!"

"Hey!" Mark ran out and the kids ran away, laughing and dissing him over their shoulders. "Stop!" Mark's hand dropped to his gun. The kids automatically scattered, becoming multiple targets. Mark could have caught the fattest one or shot a few of the others, but he only looked back at Akeem, who sighed.

"Get the tape," called Akeem. "Find out if anyone saw anything. An' don't lose any more evidence." He faced Bilal again. "We'll have to take you to the station. This is a crime scene now."

Bilal glared out at the street. "This whole shitty place is a crime scene!" He watched the EMTs roll off. "If you didn't haul the bodies away there'd be more skeletons than people!"

Akeem only shrugged. "Get a day off from school."

"I already missed two weeks. For the goddamn trial. Got a D on my history test."

Akeem's round face looked slightly sad, as did Jadd Taimur's, though Bilal hadn't specified the god. "Pack some things. They'll probably put you up somewhere. In a hotel. At least overnight."

"We're not payin'," said Bilal.

"I'm sure they'll cover it."

"I'm not."

Akeem winced as Bilal crunched away leaving bloody footprints. "Be careful, son!"

"Why?" Bilal muttered. "I'm already one of the walkin' dead."

Bilal's grandfather lived simply and clean, just as he'd lived in Sudan. He made a little from painting pictures, but "material wealth" meant noting to him. This house was his first with electric lights, running water and telephone; and though it was only rented he treated it like a caretaker instead of just a tennant. Bilal's room, by contrast, was a junk shop after an earthquake, though now it looked more like a dump in a war zone. The window glass was totally gone, and the walls of the little Victorian house were nothing but paper to lead. Wooden lathing showed like bones where chunks of plaster were blown away, and most of his classic movie posters -- Frankenstein, Dracula, Screaming Skull, and I Was A Teenage Werewolf -- hung in shreds like The Mummy's rags. Bullets had splintered his DVDs, slain his second-hand TV, killed his clock, slaughtered his lamp, and murdered his little radio. His shelves of books, mostly ghost stories, many bought used from Amazon, might have been good for recycled pulp. His collection of horror magazines, Fangora, Creepshow and Tales From The Crypt, lay shredded and scattered like gutter trash. His Dollar Store pack of Milky Way bars were blown in chunks all over floor and looked like the dog shit he cleaned off the lawn.

He became aware of pain again, mostly in his bleeding foot. Stepping more carefully now, he went to his bed and looked underneath. At least his laptop hadn't been capped. He pulled it out and switched it on, then opened a picture file. There was Devon, shirtless, chubby, and dark chocolate-brown. In his hands were a Coke and a pizza slice, and on his face his careless smile. Bilal remembered the D.A.'s questions, the hard wooden chair that stank of lies...

"In your opinion, Bilal, why did they murder your friend?"

"Probably 'cause he smiled at them."

"He was murdered just because he SMILED?" The D.A. had turned to the jury, a mix of black, brown and white, some looking shocked, a few not surprised. "Why would they do that?"

Bilal had faced the three monkey-boys, who were dressed in geek-ass suits and ties as if they'd been caught at Sunday School. They were lean and mean, a health-nazi's dream, strong healthy bodies and sick little minds. He'd made himself smile at them. "If you smile at a monkey it pisses him off. He thinks you ain't afraid of him. Or worse you might be laughin' at him for bein' a stupid monkey."

The defense attorney objected.

Bilal smiled now at Devon's picture. Anyone would... except a monkey. Devon had been his first friend in the 'hood. It was like they'd been homies for life. Devon was an enigma, something that couldn’t be explained. He was "out of shape" and didn't want in, refusing to run the middle-school mile and cheerfully taking an F in P.E. Bilal had walked the laps beside him, also defiantly getting an F. Devon's grades had only been average, but all the dudes he'd helped with homework -- including Bilal -- had aced their tests. Devon never fought anyone but nobody tested or bullied him. He didn't smoke weed or do any drugs, and his only sin had been smiling back at stupid monkey-boys.

"Why?" Bilal asked the smiling picture.

Devon should have known better. He had known better because he'd come up here! Even Bilal from the middle-class 'burbs had learned in a week to drop his eyes and keep his face an empty mask when monkeys flexed at him. Bilal gazed down at Devon's picture, Devon's digital remains. It must have been the warm afternoon, the peaceful park where they'd lost their shirts, the leaf-dappled sun playing over their chests as they'd lain in the grass beneath a tree. And the forty-ounce they were sharing; that friendly buzz you got from brew that made you want to hug everyone. Like, who could hate on a day like that? The monkeys had wanted their tree. ...If only Devon had acted scared!

Bilal shut down and closed the computer then scanned the remains of his room. The bullets had missed the closet door mirror, a window into an alternate universe just as trashed as this one. The glass showed a midnight boy of thirteen who was neither tall nor short for his age. He was probably built to be muscular and might have been if he'd wanted to, but his biceps were lightly padded with chub and his chest was a pair of bobby shapes. His belly hung over his jeans when he stood and became a roll when he sat. His face was still childlike with rounded cheeks, a wide snubby nose and full pouty lips, and his hair was an untamed Afroish bush above large obsidian eyes. Devon's chain sparkled around his neck, its silver pendant, the head of Anubis, the ancient Egyptian jackal god. Devon had said that he looked like a jackal who guarded a fat pharaoh's tomb.

He glanced again at his bed. The early October night had been warm... some people called it Indian Summer. He'd slept with the blanket down to his waist so the sheet was covered with broken glass, chunks of plaster and blasted books. He tore off the bedding and flung it away, then sat down to check his foot. The gash wasn't deep, though still oozing blood. His other wounds were baby-ass. On his desk was a bottle of alcohol for cleaning his DVDs, and somehow it had survived. He poured a little on his foot and muttered a curse at the sting. A plain white T-shirt lay on the floor, along with yesterday's jeans and socks. He snagged the shirt, shook off the glass, and wiped the blood from his other cuts.

"Bilal?" called Akeem from the living room. "Best hurry up, the suits are comin'. They'll axe you all the same questions they gonna axe at the station. No point in answerin' everything twice."

Bilal scowled. "They'll axe ‘em a million times anyway an' still won't believe the answers!" He got up and opened a dresser drawer, which fell apart in his hands. He checked the boxers inside for holes and found a pair that hadn't been drilled. Then he grabbed his jeans, shook off the glass, and pulled them up to casual sag. Like the shorts, the jeans had been Devon's, and both were way too big. Devon's belt with steel studs was the only thing that kept them on. He snagged fresh socks, tied his sneaks, then scanned the ruined room again. What else should he take? It suddenly seemed like everything mattered, all he'd collected in thirteen years. He remembered one of his grandfather's proverbs: In the course of a long life, a wise man is prepared to abandon his baggage more than once.

Akeem was the only cop he trusted, but they wouldn't leave him to guard the house. And yellow tape was no defense, no pentagram or evergreen, no crescent, cross, or magic charm, against the creatures of the night that roamed this neighborhood.

He picked up his pack from the floor; who gave a shit about homework when fools were trying to kill you? He dumped the books and binder out, stuffed in shorts, a pair of socks, then his Apple laptop. What else was really important? His autographed glossy of Freddie Kruger? No, that was little-kid shit, like a six-year-old packing to run away. A lot of his life was in the computer. He could always read books on the web, finish the H. P. Lovecraft story, The Shadow Over Innsmouth -- the book had been brutally murdered -- watch a movie, boost a song. And Devon lived in there, too. His eye fell on the nightstand. His Koran lay there as always, though he hadn't read it in almost a year. He stuck it in the drawer each night, but every day when he got home there it was again. Funny because his grandfather never touched his other things, never snooped for dope or drugs or even ragged about the mess. Beside the Koran was the Bible that Akeem had given to him. Both had survived the attack, though probably only by luck and not a holy force-field. Bilal had read the Bible and had felt defiant doing so. But his grandfather hadn't said anything, and the Koran was simply there each night beside the other book.

Bilal couldn't see much difference. Both books said to love everyone, then made a one-eighty and told you to hate. Both pleaded for peace then justified war. Both promised rewards if you were good, but only after you were dead. ...Maybe Devon knew the truth. Bilal put the books in the drawer. Let them fight it out. And, who in this 'hood would want either one?

He pulled on a plain white T-shirt -- Devon's, too, baggy and big -- then snagged a brown leather bomber jacket. The jacket had also been Devon's but he’d gotten too chubby to zip it this summer; a summer spent mostly here in this room, playing games, watching TV, surfing the web and sharing snacks. He'd stayed overnight, often for days, his rolly weight overloading the bed, making it creak like an old skeleton, usually sweaty but not smelling bad. They had made up stories there in the dark, scaring each other with werewolves and spirits, vampires, zombies, and graveyard things while gunshots popped in the alleys and streets. His mom had given his things to Bilal after Devon's funeral. Bilal pressed the jacket to his face, hiding his tears in soft sheepskin where Devon's scent still lingered like a faint and friendly ghost.

"You hear Buckwheat became a Muslim? ...Changed his name to Kareem Of Wheat."

Both cops laughed, a black and a white, down the hall by the vending machines. Bilal shot a glare at their backs, then glanced at Jadd Taimur beside him, who was clad in a kufi and African robe. But, maybe the cops hadn't seen him and were only sharing a retarded joke? And maybe his grandfather hadn't heard; he was getting a little deaf. They were sitting on a hard plastic bench out in a hall that smelled like cops... leather, steel, and gun oil mixed with acid aftershave and hints of pepper spray. The place was a kind of go-to-hell clean, cleaned by people paid to clean but who really didn't give a shit, but the walls were slimed with fear and lies like evil ectoplasm. The overhead lights were painfully bright as if designed to kill disease, and the bench seemed to hate being sat on like a pissy cat ready to bite. Jadd's VISITOR pass was clipped to his robe, while Bilal's was snapped to the tail of his shirt and dangled between his outspread legs. A few passing cops said "excuse me" and Bilal would pull back his legs, but most looked like they wanted to kick him and only glared when going around. They had taken his grandfather's staff again as soon as he'd walked in, almost snatching it away as if he might do terrorist things.

Akeem had heard the other cop's joke, frowning now as he came up the hall. He offered Bilal a McDonalds bag. "Brought y'all a breakfast sandwich."

Bilal's stomach growled at the good scents of sausage and hot melted cheese. "My grandfather doesn't eat pork."

"Oh. Sorry, Mr. Taimur," said Akeem.

Jadd Taimur smiled. "All deeds are made complete by their intentions. I am sure my grandson can eat two."

Bilal hesitated before opening the bag, but his grandfather added, "You need your strength."

Akeem indicated the vending machines. "Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Taimur?"

"Thank you but I am fine."

Akeem smiled. "I wouldn't drink that slop, either. ...I gotta leave, but I'll try an' check on your house later on." He glanced at a door beside the bench where a small plastic sign said DETECTIVE THORNE, HOMICIDE. "Hope he don't keep y'all waitin' too long."

"We're used to it," muttered Bilal, sinking his teeth in a juicy sandwich.

Akeem gave Bilal a pat on the shoulder. "'Even youths grow tired and weary, an' young men stumble an' fall; but those who hope in the Lord will always renew their strength'."

Bilal replied, "'Allah creates you weak. After weakness He gives you strength'."

"On whose name be praise," said Jadd. "Thank you for all you have done, Akeem."

Anger flickered across Akeem's face. "We really ain't done jack."

"You saved my life," said Bilal.

"Wish I coulda got there sooner."

Bilal touched Devon's charm on his chest. "Yeah, so do I."

"I'll check back," said Akeem, then walked away down the hall. He shoved between the two other cops, making one spill his coffee.

The detective's door opened and a woman came out. She was sobbing, her eyes streaming tears. She looked like one of the monkey boys' mothers when her son had been sentenced to twenty-five years; but no, Bilal saw, she wasn't. Maybe her son had been monkey-boy prey? Detective Thorne stuck his head out the door as if expecting a garbage truck making deliveries. Except for a Glock in a shoulder holster, he looked like a middle-school football coach whose team never won any games. "Come in," he said, though his tone was more like WTF.

Bilal had finished the first sandwich. He put the second, partly-chomped, back in the still-warm bag, then helped his grandfather to his feet and offered a shoulder to lean on. Thorne's office never seemed to change, cluttered with papers and towers of folders, reeking of fear-sweat and slimy with lies. The dented wastebasket still overflowed with junkfood wrappers and crushed paper cups. The computer screen still looked like a sneeze. One tube in the overhead light still flickered, just enough to annoy. Amid the mess on the desk was a small framed picture of two fat boys in swimming trunks, maybe ten and twelve. Both were holding fishing poles and smiling in a boat. There was also a cheap plastic trophy with WORLD'S GREATEST DAD on its base.

Detective Thorne plopped behind the desk and snatched a paper coffee cup as Bilal eased his grandfather into an chair... probably the one the woman had cried on. Bilal took another chair beside it, slumping down like a bored little kid and pulling the sandwich out of the bag.

"I'm sorry what happened this morning," Detective Thorne said after gulping coffee.

"Yeah," said Bilal, his mouth full again.

"We're investigating."

"Yeah," said Bilal, then muffled a burp.

"Did you see their faces?"

"No," said Bilal.

The man gave Bilal a cop look, his eyes a kind of tired blue like the summer sky on a Save The Air Day. "If you had would you tell me?"

Bilal shrugged. "I don't know anymore."

Jadd Taimur said, "I am sure he would."

Thorne looked doubtful but opened a folder and studied a form. "None of your neighbors saw anything, but we're sure it was the Dubs."

Bilal ate the last bite of sandwich. "Duh," he muttered, then let out a burp that scented the air with sausage and cheese.

Detective Thorne glared. "You're not stupid, what did you expect?"

"Exactly what we got," said Bilal, slumping even more in the chair and splaying out his legs.

Jadd Taimur said quietly, "He did what any good man would do."

"Yeah, I know," said Thorne. Some of the anger left his face. "You seem like decent people. But... I dunno, call it the system... isn't set up to protect. ...After the fact, I mean. ...After the crime..."

"I know what you mean," said Bilal. "Or maybe just not people like us. An' most of the time not before 'the fact,' either."

Thorne frowned. "There isn't a witness protection program. Not for a case like this." He gulped more coffee like medicine that tasted as bad as it smelled. "What I'm trying to say is..."

Bilal scowled and sat up straight. "Some stupid monkeys killed a black kid an' nobody gives a shit."

Thorne looked pissed for a moment, but then he shrugged. "That's basically what it comes to." He picked up his cup, found it empty, crushed it like he was killing something and dropped it into the wastebasket. "There's a victims assistance agency, but I don't know how much help they can be."

Bilal snorted. "So, we're back to bein' victims again just before the fact."

Thorne's telephone rang and he grabbed it like a squalling cat he wanted to strangle. "Yeah? ...Give me another five minutes." He turned to Jadd Taimur. "If I were you I'd move. ...Fast. I can give you another week of protection..." He shot a warning look at Bilal. "That should be enough to make your arrangements. Victims Assistance might help. I'll give you their card. They also have a website, but..."

Bilal snorted again. "I got a computer."

"They're only small local gang," Thorne went on to Jadd Taimur as if Bilal was a retarded ghost. "The family uses them for 'enforcement,' mostly dealing crack to kids, but they've got no power outside a few blocks. I doubt they could track anyone very far. That would take money and brains." He picked up another folder and flipped through some papers inside. "Not one of those punks finished school. ...Does Bilal have any relatives? Hopefully in another town?"

Bilal spoke first: "When my parents got killed in the car crash I went to live with Jadd."

"We could put you in a foster home."

"No!" snapped Bilal. "An' that wouldn't help my grandfather. If they couldn't get me they'd go after him."

Thorne sighed. "I know. But it would be less conspicuous if he resettled alone. ...On the down-low."

"Less conspicuous," said Bilal, precisely pronouncing the words.

"...Then, maybe after six months..."

Bilal snarled, "I ain't gettin' stuck in no suck-ass home!"

"Don't fight me, kid!" Detective Thorne roared. "I don't have to do a goddamn thing! You said it yourself; a few black punks killed a black kid and now they want to kill you. And nobody...!" His eyes seemed to find the picture of the two fat boys with fishing poles. "Look, son. I'm sorry your friend was killed, And I'm sorry about all the other shit. Nobody should have to go through that. But some people do and they come out okay. If you let it screw up the rest of your life then the... monkeys... killed you anyway."

Jadd Taimur spoke. "Bilal has a cousin."

"What?" cried Bilal as if he'd been tasered.

"Two, actually. The younger would be about your age."

For a second Bilal sat stunned, his mouth hanging stupidly open. Then he said, "That means I got an uncle."

"No," said Jadd. "He passed away some years ago. But your elder cousin would be in his twenties and, as far as I know, your younger cousin lives with him."

Thorne cocked his head. "Where?"

"They live near a town called Stockton. In what I believe is called the Delta."

"That should be far enough," said Thorne. "Mostly farm country up there. A few of... your people. Not muzzlem, of course..." He glanced at Bilal. "But he doesn't look muzzlem without the hat."

Bilal had turned to his grandfather. "How come I didn't know I had cousins? How come mom an' dad never told me? ...Or you?"

"I will explain later," said Jadd.

"So?" asked Thorne, checking his watch. "You think he could live with his cousins awhile until you get resettled?"

"I will write to them," said Jadd.

The telephone squalled and Thorne snatched it up. "...Okay, send 'em in." He tossed the two folders aside, snagged another from a pile, then turned to Jadd again. "I hope you get a quick answer."

"They’re out there," muttered Bilal, scanning the almost empty street as dawn light painted the neighborhood with gentle shades of rose and gold.

"You see anything last night?" asked Mark.

"I can smell their stupid monkey shit."

Akeem was also scoping the street as they stood on the little front porch. The black-and-white was at the curb, exhaust pipe trailing a ghost of steam in the early morning coolness. "Probably 'round the corner up there. They tried to follow the movin' van yesterday afternoon."

"They did?" asked Bilal, who wore only jeans low on his hips, their tumble of cuffs hiding his feet.

"Yeah," said Mark. "We gave them a ticket."

"For what?" asked Bilal, eating the last of a Pop Tart.

"Running a stop sign." Mark scowled. "If this was Iraq..."

"But it ain't," said Akeem. "So don't go gettin' no wack ideas."

"Goddammit!" snapped Mark. "We know they want to kill Bilal. We know they tried to kill him. And we know they're going to kill him if they get the slightest chance! And all we can do is give them a ticket!"

"What did you do in Iraq?" asked Bilal.

"Killed people who were trying to kill me."

"'Think not that I bring you peace'," said Bilal. "'I bring a sword'."

"Is that in the Koran?" asked Mark.

"No. The Bible. Jesus supposedly said it."

"Sounds like He went to Iraq."

"This ain't Iraq," Akeem said again.

"I noticed," said Mark. "Here the terrorists just get tickets."

The living room windows had been covered with plywood, and the house was neat and clean again except for all the bullet holes. Bilal had mowed the lawn yesterday because his grandfather had asked him to, and picked the trash out of the flowers, though that didn't make any sense to him... the landlord had threatened to sue for the damage.

Mark looked in though the open front door, now held together with new yellow boards that smelled like Devon's Christmas trees. "How many times does your grandfather pray?"

"Five times a day," said Bilal. "At least."

"Facing the sun?"

"Facin' Mecca."

"How does he know it's that way?" asked Mark. "I mean, the earth is round..."

"The Koran says, All deeds are made complete by their intentions. Like, Allah knows when you're doin' your best even if you don't get it right."

"You don't pray?" asked Akeem.

"Last time I prayed was on the sidewalk... I prayed that Devon would live." Bilal glanced in at his grandfather and lowered his voice a little. "But maybe Allah didn't care 'cause he wasn't one of the Faithful."

"You an' Devon was pretty tight."

"Yeah," said Bilal, touching Devon's charm. "When do you pray?"

"Every night," said Akeem. "Been prayin' for you an' your grandfather."

"...Thanks," said Bilal. "He's been prayin' for you an' Mark."

"Thanks," said Mark. "I could probably use it."

Bilal shrugged. "Thank him. ...But thanks for takin' our backs. Both of you. An' don't bullshit it's just your job."

Akeem sighed. "I used to think it was." He glanced at his watch. "Better get dressed, little bro. The car should be here for your grandfather soon."

The house was as empty inside as a skull, and Bilal's bare feet made padding echoes that followed him into his room. Its window had also been boarded, leaving it spooky and dark. He'd salvaged everything worth saving, packed it all in a crate yesterday, and spent last night on the floor in a blanket with Devon's jacket under his head. He picked up the jacket and slipped it on, the sheepskin soft against his skin, the scent of Devon haunting his nose.

They had cut off the power three days ago; a city inspector had called it unsafe. Bilal had patched "Aladdin's lamp," using a cork from an old wine bottle, and read by its gentle flame each night, comparing the Bible with the Koran and finding no comfort in either. His pack was packed with a few extra clothes, toothbrush, paste and socks. He'd also packed the holy books. A lone white T-shirt hung like a ghost from a nail where Freddie Kruger had been. Bilal sat on the floor to tie his sneaks, then removed Devon's jacket to put on his shirt.

"Bilal? Car's here," called Akeem. "You dressed... all the way?"

"Yeah." Bilal put on the jacket again, then slung his pack over a shoulder. He paused in the bullet-ripped doorway, feeling an urge to whisper goodbye. ...Goodbye to what, he wondered? This shabby old house in this sick neighborhood? If Devon's ghost was still around he wanted it to follow him.

The car was unmarked and rat-colored gray, though any street kid would have known what it was. An unmarked cop was waiting beside it. Jadd Taimur was out on the porch in kufi and robe, his mat rolled neatly under an arm. He embraced Bilal. "I hope it will not be long until we are together again."

"I hope so, too," said Bilal, hugging his grandfather tightly.

"You have your cousins' address?"

Bilal patted a pocket. "Yeah."

"Goodbye, then... for now."

"Goodbye, Jadd."

"Remember, you did the right thing."

"Yeah," said Bilal. "...May Allah be with you."

"On whose name be praise. And He is always with you, grandson."

Akeem and Mark stood flanking Bilal, watching the street as the car rolled away. Window shades twitched in several houses, but no one had come out to witness. Even the kids in the neighborhood had been taking a long way to school.

"How you feelin'?" asked Akeem.

Bilal was gazing after the car. "Wish I knew where he was goin'."

"Thorne thought it was safer if you didn't."

"'Cause I might try an' follow him?"

"Probably."

"You think the Dubs are watching?" asked Mark, as the car disappeared around a corner.

"Yeah," said Bilal and Akeem together. Akeem added, "But they probably won't follow it. There's only five of 'em left, an' one ain't old enough to drive."

"Won't they recruit new members?" asked Mark.

"Sure," said Akeem. "But, hard as it is to believe, a lot of kids are gettin' a clue that thugger shit is..."

Bilal spat on the newly-mown lawn. "Stupid monkey-boys!"

Akeem checked the quiet street once more. A seagull cried from a telephone pole where sneaker-fruit hung from a wire. A sleepy dog barked a few houses down. A rat scuttled into a gutter drain, and a garbage truck rumbled a block away. "This is the best time to hit us. Flex their power here in the 'hood. I asked for backup but Thorne couldn't spare it."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?" asked Bilal.

"Don't go paranoid on me. You gettin' capped won't help his career." Akeem scanned around again. "Hopefully they think we got backup 'cause this would be the place to have it."

Mark muttered, "Wish I had my M-16."

"Don't have no PTS," said Akeem. "You fightin' American terror now."

Mark unsnapped his pistol. "Like fighting a tank with a BB gun!"

"That's the way I always been fightin'."

Mark shook his head. "I killed a kid about Bilal's age. He had a bomb on his chest, trying to take out a tank."

Akeem only shrugged. "I killed a pretty young woman comin' at me with a butcher knife. She'd just cut her two-year-old's throat... 'cause her boyfriend didn't like him. Looked like a scene from Psycho. If you need an enemy who believes in somethin' you best get back in the Army."

He and Mark still flanking Bilal, they came down the sidewalk across the lawn and past the strip of flowerbed where a new crop of trash was already sprouting. "Y'all squeeze up front with us," said Akeem as Mark cracked the passenger door.

"Yeah," added Mark. "We're almost bulletproof."

"Wait," said Bilal, going to the mailbox.

The cops went tense as a car started up a few houses away. "C'mon, little bro!" ordered Akeem.

Bilal had already opened the box. "Got my new Creepshow."

"Move it!" yelled Mark as the car came toward them. He boosted Bilal in the black-and-white, then dropped to a crouch behind the door.

Akeem, on the driver's side in the street, relaxed as the car murmured past. "Just somebody goin' to work. Most folks around here still do that. The lucky ones with jobs, anyway."

"Didn't you stop your mail?" asked Mark, as they rolled up the street in the bright morning sun.

Sandwiched tightly between the two men, breathing their scents of gun oil and leather, Bilal looked up from his magazine. "Thorne said it was safer not to. An' not to leave a forward address at the post office. It could be tracked on the internet... if the monkeys could use a computer."

Akeem frowned a little, checking the mirrors as he turned a corner. "Thorne ain't no expert at this kinda thing. His job is fillin' up privatized prisons. ...What about your family an' friends? The Dubs could get their addresses by goin' through the mailbox."

"Don't got no friends," muttered Bilal. "Not anymore, since Devon..." He sighed. "No family neither except my cousins, an' I just found out about them. We only get bills an' junk mail. Plus my magazines. ...I gotta renew the subscriptions."

Akeem stopped for a light. "Wish we had time to roll through McDees."

"Me too," said Bilal.

Mark had been watching the right-hand mirror. "How come you just found out you had cousins?"

Bilal closed the magazine. "My dad had a older brother. I never knew that. Guess he was kinda bad or somethin'. Dropped out of school an' then disappeared."

"Black sheep of the family?" asked Mark. "...Sorry."

Bilal smiled. "Yeah, guess he was. But, he wrote to Jadd a few years ago. I think he wanted to find my dad an' maybe try an' get back together. But then he got killed in an accident... somethin' about a bridge somewhere. His oldest son... one of my cousins... only wrote once after that. My younger cousin's about my age."

Akeem smiled. "That should be cool for both of you. Lots of our folk in Stockton, but we spread pretty thin in the Delta. They send you any pictures?"

Bilal shook his head. "The letter just said it was cool if I came."

Mark asked, "What about your cousins' mother? You never mentioned your aunt."

Bilal shrugged. "My uncle never said nothin' about her."

"Do your cousins know why you're coming?"

"Thorne said it was safer not to tell 'em. Just that my grandfather had to move an' I needed a place to stay awhile."

"You gonna tell 'em?" asked Akeem.

"Thorne said to be careful about talkin' to people. Like, about my past. But, I think they got a right to know."

"We got monkeys," muttered Mark, gazing into the mirror. "All five little apes in an old minivan. Looks like mom's taxi with babies on board."

"I noticed," said Akeem. "Probably boosted, run the plate."

Mark tapped keys on the dashboard computer. "Why some crappy old minivan? I thought wanksters wanted bad rides."

"Low-pro on a mission," said Akeem. "Nobody remembers a minivan, except it was a minivan, an' there's plenty of room for the posse. Nice big windows to shoot from, an' usually easy to steal. 'Specially up in white neighborhoods. Daddy's Hot Wheels gets the Lo-Jack. But Mommy's van has the Playskool alarm an' spends the night in the driveway 'cause the two-car garage is half full of toys like campin' gear an' fitness machines." He put a hand on Bilal's shoulder. "Don't turn around. We don't wanna scare the monkeys away."

"Still got our monkey tail?" asked Akeem, driving into a parking lot. A train was slowly approaching, rumbling south through Jack London Square where the tracks ran down the middle of the street, cars darting aside like mice from a cat.

"Yeah," said Mark, as Akeem stopped the car in a red zone about twenty feet from the train station doors. "They cut in behind that Wonder Bread truck."

Akeem shook his head. "Too bad that stuff don't build strong minds. They keep raisin' the bar on 'health' in schools but lower it every year on brains. Part of the reason the prisons are full."

The parking lot bustled with mostly white people, many lugging or pulling suitcases; families with kids, the kids with packs, hurrying into the station. The building's front was mostly glass, and Bilal could see it was crowded inside. Akeem shut off the engine. "This is the next best place for a hit. Blow up in the papers an' get on TV. Make little monkeys wanna be big ones."

Mark nodded. "Join a gang and be all you can be."

"Usually twenty-five years to life." Akeem scanned the busy station. "We know they got at least two AKs. Could make a hell of a mess in there. ...No hoo-rah shit if it happens, dawg. Take cover an' call for backup."

"Understood," said Mark.

Akeem faced Bilal. "You down with the plan, little bro?"

Bilal slipped the magazine into his pack. "Let's do this."

Akeem checked his watch as the train rumbled in, brake shoes squealing as it stopped, massive engines shaking the ground as they slowed to a low-thunder idle. Porters, all black, began opening doors, and people got off toting luggage.

"Wait five minutes," Akeem said to Mark. "The monkeys are out of their jungle here so they gonna be scared an' confused. One's gotta wait in the car... probably one with a license, so two don't have much experience. They might freeze up, or freak an' run. ...Or they might spray anything that moves. Don't shoot first." He studied the building again. "If any of them apes got a spoonful of brains they know there's cameras all over this place so they probably gonna hood-up. If Security here is worth a shit, they'll probably spot 'em an' come on the run. That might scare 'em off... or make 'em start shootin'." He glanced at the outside mirror. "The two younger ones are over by the parkin' booth. Baggy an' saggy. Got bandanas around their necks."

"I see 'em," said Mark, checking his mirror. "Probably keeping in touch by phone... yeah, little baggy just made a call."

Akeem nodded. "If I was the other two, I'd come around that shuttle bus an' hit you before you get inside."

"Understood," said Mark.

Akeem gave Bilal a pat on the shoulder. "Trust in the Lord, little bro."

"Right now I trust you," said Bilal.

Akeem popped the door. "Five minutes, then go."

"Don't worry," said Mark to Bilal as Akeem got out and walked away, heading for the idling train where people were starting to board. "I never lost a man in my squad." He watched as Akeem spoke to a porter and climbed aboard one of the cars. Then he pulled something out of his pocket. "You know how to use one of these?"

Bilal stared down at the gun. It looked like an old .45, squarish in shape, dented and scarred. One of the black plastic grips was cracked, and most of the blue was worn off the steel. "Um, I never shot a gun."

"Any retard can shoot," said Mark. "That's another reason the prisons are full. ...This is a Tokarev, Model TT. 7.62. Ugly, but built like a Mack garbage truck. Used to be Soviet Army, see the red star on the grips?"

"...Yeah."

"Eight shot clip... you cock it like this. No manual safety... understand?"

"...Yeah."

"Only safe way to pack it is without a round in the chamber... nothing in the hole."

"...Okay."

"There's one in it now," said Mark. "Pull the trigger, it'll shoot. And seven more times if you need to."

"...Aight," said Bilal, taking the gun.

"It's clean," added Mark. "At least in this country. I brought it home for a souvenir."

"From somebody else you killed in the war?"

"At least he believed in something." Mark checked his watch. "Keep it until you don't need it. Until you're sure you don't need it. Then throw it away where nobody can find it. There's a lot of rivers where you're going."

"...Okay." Bilal slipped the gun in his jacket pocket.

"Remember, there's no safety," said Mark. "Unload it as soon as you can... pull the clip and cock it again to pop out the round in the chamber. Keep your finger off the trigger. Understood?"

"...Yeah."

"Akeem doesn't know about this."

Bilal nodded. "I figured that already. You could get in a lotta trouble, huh?"

Mark laughed. "I just gave a gun to a Muslim kid! They'd probably send me to Gitmo." He checked his watch again. "It's showtime. Stay ahead of me through the doors. Once we're inside be ready to run."

"Understood," said Bilal, tugging his pack straps tighter. "...Thanks."

Mark shrugged. "I gotta believe in something."

Bilal squirmed past the steering wheel, bulky in his jacket and pack. Mark came around and opened the door, flicking his eyes to the parking booth, then to the idling shuttle bus. Bilal slid out, catching a glimpse of one of the Dubs, maybe fifteen, slinking across the parking lot, his face in shadow under his hood, bandana hiding all but his eyes. Then he spotted two bigger boys edging around the bus.

"Go!" hissed Mark, shoving Bilal through the station doorway.

A group of people were just coming out, burdened by luggage and totes. Mark used Bilal as a battering ram, like women used babies in strollers at malls, his uniform muting the people's curses. A man's voice blared through speakers: "Coast Starlight now departing for San Jose, Salinas, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, Oxnard, Simi Valley, Van Nuys, and Los Angeles. ...All aboard!"

The place was a jumble of images, like someone had dropped a video cam... polished floor, plastic chairs, people hugging and saying goodbyes. Bilal saw a kid by a candy machine. A woman glared at Mark when he bumped her. A pair of blond boys around Bilal's age were staring at him being pushed by a cop. A security guard had noticed them and was starting across the room. Bilal looked over his shoulder: three of the Dubs, two big, one small, were shoving their way through the doors, but people weren't getting out of their way. A man in a suit shoved the younger Dub back.... no respect for monkeys here. That meant their steel was still on the under.

"I see 'em," said Mark, still bulling their way toward the platform doors, people looking pissed at first but then backing off because he was a cop.

"But, there's only three," puffed Bilal, getting his breath knocked out against bodies.

"I noticed, keep going!"

Outside, porters were stowing steps as the last of the passengers boarded the train. Hands were waving behind window glass. Diesels rumbled, powering up. Most of the people inside the station were moving toward the parking lot doors. Angry murmurs and curses were growing as the Dubs shoved their way against the flow like wankster salmon fighting upstream.

"Don't look!" ordered Mark. They had almost reached the platform doors, now being closed another guard. The first guard, white and somewhere in his forties, a small .38 in his holster, had wormed his way through the people. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Mark didn't stop. "Those three black kids in the hoodies back there. ...Don't look at them! See any action?"

"...Yeah, in the Gulf."

"Then you don't wanna see any more in here."

"...What should I do?"

"Nothing unless they start shooting, and call 911 if that happens. Don't try for a medal, they got us outgunned."

"Understood!"

The crowd, like a big sleepy animal, was slowly becoming aware that something was burrowing into its fur. Curses were getting louder as the Dubs battered people out their way. Somebody shouted, "Security!"

"Open that door!" yelled Mark, as the other guard moved to close it. Porters were closing doors on the train. Its whistle blew a wavering blast. Compressed air hissed as brakes released. Suddenly there were screams of terror.

"They pulled!" puffed Bilal, as he burst into sunlight.

"Surprised they waited this long," muttered Mark. "...NO!" he yelled to the second guard, whose hand was going for his gun. "They'll blow you apart! ...Cover, goddammit!"

More screams echoed behind them as if the living dead were loose. The crowd had parted like the Red Sea, a few people dropping to the floor, some pulling children with them, as the three hooded boys, two with AKs, the smaller gripping some kind of pistol, awkward in their baggy jeans, came charging at the doors. Smoke pillared up from the engine; the train was beginning to move.

"There!" yelled Mark, stabbing a finger three cars down where a porter leaned out of a still-open door. "Go! Go! Go!"

Bilal dashed for the door as the car drew closer. "GO!" shouted Mark.

Bilal wasted a second glancing back, seeing Mark, gun in both hands, drop to a crouch on the platform. The boys burst out of the station, skidding cartoonishly to a stop and slamming into each other. Mark could have shot them all right then and solved a lot of problems. The car with the open door was nearing. The porter scoped the scene at a glance and jerked his head inside.

Bilal expected gunfire, but heard Mark yell, "Don't try it!"

The car was rolling past Bilal, its open door just six feet away, when he caught a glimpse of the fourth hooded boy. He'd come around outside the building, armed with maybe a cheap Cobray. Bilal remembered an old war movie. "Mark! Nine o'clock!"

The train was gathering speed. Bulked by the heavy jacket and pack, Bilal made a clumsy dive for the door. He grabbed a metal handle. His sneakers slipped off the step, kicking air above the tracks, but a hand reached out and gripped his arm, pulling him inside. There was a short burst of fire... Cobrays were famous for jamming. Bullets rattled on steel. Something hit his back like a fist, knocking him forward onto the floor.

"Lord!" cried the porter, dragging Bilal clear of the steps then slamming the door behind him. Bilal heard a shot from a pistol... Mark's. He expected a full-auto blast in return but only heard the diesel drone and the clatter and creak of the car.

"Son!" cried the porter. He dropped to his knees beside Bilal.

"I'm okay," panted Bilal, almost surprised that he was.

"Thank god!" The man jerked Bilal to his feet as if he was wrestling somebody's luggage. "Thought I was back in 'Nam for minute. ...Hurry up now, little man."

The door across the car was still open. Rolling past were gravel and weeds; beyond was a chain-link fence. Bilal faced the front of the train and jumped, hitting the ground at a run. He darted away from the clanking wheels and jammed his back to the fence.

"Glad I could help!" called the porter, leaning from the doorway. "Whatever that was all about!"

Bilal waved at the man while panting for breath as the last of the cars went clattering by in a swirl of dust and a flutter of trash. Inside a window four feet away a boy with a laptop was playing a game. The train's whistle blew at a crossing where red lights flashed and warning bells clanged. Bilal was about two blocks from the station. He didn't hear anymore gunfire but at least a dozen sirens screamed. Then, a white Ford Explorer came rolling up through dry yellow weeds outside the fence, the sun gleaming bright on its twenty-inch rims.

"You cool, little bro?" asked Akeem at the wheel.

"Yeah," puffed Bilal. "But, what about Mark?"

"Nobody got hurt, thank the Lord. Mark fired one shot... guess at the monkey tryin' for you... an' all of 'em bailed their bad little butts. Wish I coulda seen that."

"Guess they were scared of cappin' a cop."

"They got just enough brains to be scared of that. We're still the baddest gang in town."

"So, they got away?"

"Woulda been stupid to try an' stop 'em." Akeem cocked his head as his radio sputtered. "We're after the van, but it was boosted. They'll probably dump it an' scatter. An' nobody saw their faces." He glanced down the tracks at the dwindling train. The warning bells stopped at the crossing, and red-and-white arms began to rise. "But, you're on your way to Los Angeles now an' they ain't gonna hunt you that far." He patted the Explorer's door. "What y'all think of my ride?"

"Cool." Bilal looked back at the station. "But, what about all the shit that went down? Where's Mark now?"

"Probably gettin' his ass chewed by Thorne. Ain't lookin' forward to that myself."

"Guess I trust two cops now."

Akeem smiled. "Mark'll be proud hear that. He ain't been feelin' like much of a hero since comin' back from Iraq."

"I noticed," said Bilal. "You an' him gonna get in trouble?"

"Thorne ain't gonna be happy we 'put the public in danger.' Like they got a right to feel safe an' you don't. But he'll cover our asses an' shovel some shit. Paper an' TV will probably call it gang-related, but it ain't gonna blow up the Dubs in the 'hood, losin' a victim an' runnin' away." Akeem checked his watch. "There's a steak an' eggs special at I-hop. Comes with a stack of pancakes."

Bilal looked up at the fence. "I gotta climb that?"

"Be good exercise."

Bilal wiped sweat from his face. The morning sun was growing hot and the air by the Bay was steamy. "I just got a shitfull of exercise."

"Walk down to the crossin', I'll meet you." Akeem got out of his truck. "Toss me your pack."

Bilal shed his pack and threw it. Then he took off Devon's jacket, revealing an OPD vest. "You were right about gettin' dressed all the way. Thanks."

Akeem shrugged. "We're supposed to serve an' protect. Sometimes I still believe that. ...Yo! Is that what I think it is?"

Bilal scanned the back of Devon's jacket. "Shit! Check in my pack! Is my laptop okay?"

"It's cool," said Akeem after looking inside. "But your toothpaste got drilled. Sorry about your jacket."

"It's only a nine millimeter hole." Bilal stripped off the bulky vest and sailed it over the fence to Akeem. He almost tossed the jacket, but then remembered the gun. Did he need it anymore? But he couldn't get rid of it here. And, what if Akeem got pissed at Mark for giving it to him? He put on the jacket again.

"Y'all need that on a day like this?" asked Akeem.

The sign said RUST and it was rusty. Ahead was a rusty iron bridge that looked about a hundred years old. Bilal wondered if the rusty sign was a warning about the rusty old bridge. It was a drawbridge, he noticed; there were two towers, one at each end, with huge iron wheels on top, and the whole center section was lifted by cables. On the nearest tower, just above where the road went through, a traffic light was glowing green. Bilal supposed it would change to red when the bridge was being opened, and a wooden bar would probably close like a railroad crossing.

If the sign was really a warning, the driver didn't seem to care; the bus rolled on without slowing down. Another sign said CAUTION STEEL DECK. Another said TRAFFIC STOP HERE. A fourth rusty sign on the nearest tower said something about 14 DAYS but there wasn't time to read it. The deck was made of steel mesh so the bus almost seemed to be driving on air, and the water below was sun-shimmered green like a jungle lagoon in a swamp-creature movie. Bilal thought of something he'd read in a book... burning your bridges behind you. He supposed it meant that, if you did, you could never go back where you came from. The bus had crossed a lot of bridges since leaving Oakland hours before, but now, by crossing this rusty old bridge, a bridge that was mostly empty space like a huge skeleton of iron bones, a bridge that could open and cut off the road, it seemed like a bond had been broken somehow between his old life and what lay ahead.

The bus rolled under the second tower and slowed to enter a tiny town. It had already stopped in a dozen small towns since leaving what seemed to be a main highway and wandering into a mostly flat land of big open fields and small groves of trees under empty blue sky and a bright yellow sun. The towns had all looked shabby and old, like parts of West Oakland scattered in Oz, though here and there were new Quick-Marts, glaring gas stations and fast-food joints. But this town had none of those things. There were only about a dozen buildings surrounded by a few dozen houses, many of which were Victorians that made him think of Oakland again. The town's biggest building was rust-colored brick and might have once been a saloon or hotel, maybe back when the bridge was built. Now it was Gilman's Market. Beside it was an old gas station with a rusty sign that said Flying Horse. There was also a tractor repair shop, a little cafe called The Ideal Lunch, a tiny post office that looked like a jail, built of stone with iron bars, and a few other stores that were closed or abandoned, some with boards on their windows. It was like a town in a teen-slasher movie where Jason or Michael came out after dark.

The bus came to a stop with a soft hiss of brakes near the high stone porch of the market. "Rust," said the driver's voice through speakers. Like in the other little towns he didn't shut off the engine. Bilal smiled back at Devon's picture, then shut down and closed the computer. He wrapped it in Devon's jacket, folded the jacket into his pack, then rose from his seat and tugged up his jeans.

The driver was a big black man who looked like he'd seen every movie twice and didn't want to see one again. But now he looked up as Bilal walked by and his face was carefully kind. "Runnin' away from somethin', son?"

"...Huh?" said Bilal. "No. My cousins live here."

"Y'all sure, son? If this is as far as you could afford, I can take you on to Stockton. Our church has a shelter for kids, but we don't preach a lot an' the food ain't bad."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "Thanks. But I really do got cousins here."

The driver skimmed Bilal with his eyes. "Well, this ain't West Oaktown, so you won't be dodgin' bullets." Then he suddenly smiled. "Don't get butted by a goat or step on any rattlesnakes. An' thanks for goin' Greyhound."

Bilal paused on the bus's last step. The air outside was hot and dry. It smelled like weeds in a vacant lot. An old pickup and a dusty car were parked in front of the little cafe, but there were no people in sight. Bilal looked back at the rusty old bridge, which had green light on this side, too. "Is there another bus today?"

"Bored already?" asked the driver, his hand on the door closing lever. "Comes though about seven-thirty. ...Sure you don't wanna checkout our shelter? Even got cable TV."

"I'm cool. But thanks." Bilal stepped down to hot asphalt broken and buckled by patches of weeds like slowly invading alien life. The bus's door clunked shut behind him. The engine wound up and the bus rolled away, leaving a ghost of diesel smoke that hung in the sweltering air. He watched until the bus disappeared up the shimmering ribbon of road. Its engine sound faded and left only silence. Bilal had never heard nothing before; even at three in the morning there were semi-trucks on the 880 freeway, the rumble of trains, the scream of sirens, and almost always a few gunshots. He realized he was standing, stupidly in a parking lot, and probably looked like a runaway kid. There was a bench on the market's porch beneath a rusty Greyhound sign. He climbed stone steps to sit in the shade and pulled out his cousins' address: 13 Channel Road. That couldn't be far in a town this small. He glanced at the tiny post office beneath a faded American flag that hung as limp as a dishrag: this place was lucky to have a zip code! He thought about buying a Coke in the store and maybe a candy bar, but he only had twenty dollars until his grandfather sent him more. Victims Assistance had helped a little, paying for part of his grandfather's move, but they'd wanted to put Bilal in a home. The System's solution to all kids' problems was to take them away from people who loved them and lock them up with people who didn't. When Jadd Taimur had refused, the System had washed its hands of Bilal.

An elderly man came out of the store. He was white and carried a broom, and reminded Bilal of Uncle Sam though clad in farmer overalls, a blue work shirt and a John Deere cap. Bilal remembered a movie about a little southern town: the man would call him a nigger and chase him off with the broom!

"Well, hello, son," said the man with a smile.

"...Uh. ...Hello, sir," Bilal replied. His voice sounded white in his ears, the way he'd talked in the 'burbs. It surprised him that he still knew how, but maybe it was like riding a bike.

"Don't see a lot of you folks around here."

"...Um, I guess not."

The man shifted the broom in his gnarled hands as if he was holding a rifle. "Shared a foxhole on Iwo Jima with a buddy named Elroy Washington." His faded gray eyes seemed to go far away. "I would have died for Elroy, but he ended up dyin' for me. Took a Jap bayonet in the guts one night while lettin' me catch an hour of sleep. He got the Jap with his .45, but there wasn't a thing I could do for him. Took him a long time to die, an' I held him in my arms."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "I'm sorry."

The old man sighed. "Lotta water under that bridge. ...Need any help?"

"Um, do you know where Channel Road is?"

"Lookin' for the graveyard?"

"...Huh?"

The man aimed his broom at the rusty old bridge. "Right back there, this side of the channel. Runs east two miles past the graveyard, then dead-ends at the Wainwright farm. ...Used to be the Wainwright farm, till they sold out to the Japs like most of the other little guys. ...Guess they won the war after all, but I still won't buy a Toyota!" He shifted the broom. "Goin' west is the church. Saint Thaddeus." He broke into a cackle. "All the kids call it Saint Toads. Did myself when I was your age. ...Then the school, nearly a mile. Then the Moonview. Nothin' but farmland after that, till you get down to Saunders Ferry." His wrinkled face went sour. "Got a Walmart there. 'Bout put this town in the graveyard!" He turned to gaze across the street at several boarded buildings. "Waite's Variety went first, then Marsh's Shoes an' Allen's Rexall. Eliot's Hardware will probably go next. Barely hangin' on myself." He paused to spit off the porch. "If Walmart is 'American,' then so are all them moose-lems!"

"...Oh," said Bilal. He wondered what the Moonview was. He almost asked about his cousins -- the man would probably know them since he seemed to know everything else -- but maybe he'd better stay on the low. "Thank you, sir," he said.

The man looked curious, like he wanted to ask a million questions and had all the time in the world, but a phone rang in the store, the old-fashioned kind with a bell. Bilal waited until the man went inside, then tugged up his pack, descended the steps, and walked toward the rusty old bridge. Maybe he should go to the school? His younger cousin would probably be there, and he had to register.

Bilal was in pretty good shape he supposed, despite his slab of tummy chub and roundly bobby chest, but he'd never walked very far in his life; that's what busses and BART were for. His back ached a little from taking the bullet, and the weight of his pack wasn't helping. And, this wasn't an afternoon amble with Devon up to the liquor store for snacks, or a leisurely ramble around the school track counting the laps they couldn't do before being saved by the bell. The sun was hot on his arms and face, and his shirt was growing wet with sweat as he trudged along the right-hand shoulder where huge yellow spiders with black tiger stripes seemed to be watching from webs in the weeds.

Channel Road followed the river -- or was it called a channel? -- that glistened on the left-hand side. Its banks were lined with bushes and reeds in many gentle shades of green, but the land was mostly open fields of dry yellow grass and brown earth tones with scattered groves of emerald oaks; the only kind of trees he knew except for weeping willows. Farther away were small rounded hills also dotted with oaks. He saw a big snake in the grass. It didn't rattle at him, but he made a wide detour around it. Should he be watching for goats? Did they sneak up on you from behind? He shot a look over his shoulder, but there was only the weathered road shimmering under the sun. He raised his eyes to the rusty bridge towers; it didn't look like he'd come very far, though he felt like he'd walked ten miles already. He continued on past a cluster of trees, and there was shabby wooden church with a rusty bell in a leaning steeple that might have been full of bats. It looked like the church in Jeepers-Creepers, though in slightly better shape. He remembered an H.P. Lovecraft poem... Beware the cracked chimes of Saint Toads. But a sign announced a pancake breakfast after Sunday service. Thinking of pancakes with butter and syrup reminded him of breakfast at I-hop. But that had been hours ago: he should have scored a snack at the store.

Again, he marveled how quiet it was; a transformer hummed on a telephone pole, and miles away a tractor clattered across a dusty field. He thought of Jeepers-Creepers again and the rusty old truck the demon had driven, cruising a country road like this and piling victims in the back. Once more he looked over his shoulder, but told himself he was checking for goats.

He glanced at the channel and thought of the gun. Akeem had bought his ticket, escorting him past the security guard and Greyhound's low-budget terror inspection. Once on the road, he'd jacked out the cap in the bus bathroom and put it back in the clip. Should he throw the gun in the water now? ...But, was he sure he didn't need it? A gun was no good against demons, but what if a goat attacked?

Then he heard an engine coming. It sounded like a big old truck! He spun around and dropped his pack but saw an ancient muscle car; a dented Firebird from the 1970s, approaching though the haze of heat as if materializing. It was sloppily painted barbecue black, probably with spray cans. Its driver must have seen him because the car began to slow. Bilal thought of other movies, of black people jumped by rednecks, tied up and dragged behind cars! He unzipped his pack as the car rolled up and stopped with a squeal of wornout brakes, scenting the air with hot motor oil. All the windows were open, and there was only the driver inside, a shirtless, wiry, red-haired dude of maybe seventeen. Death metal blasted from over-amped speakers.

"Hey, bro!" called the dude.

"Hey," said Bilal, a hand on the gun in his pack.

"This the way to Saunders Ferry?"

"Um... yeah."

"Cool. Thanks." The dude took a gulp from a can of Bud. "Sorry, last one, or I'd hook you up."

"That's okay," said Bilal.

"Wanna buy some weed?"

"No thanks."

"Got some killer crystal."

Bilal frowned. "No."

"Crack?"

"No."

"Ecstasy?"

"No."

"Oxy?"

"No!"

"How 'bout some acid? Take a trip and never leave the farm."

"No!"

"Later, alligator." The dude popped the clutch and peeled way, spraying Bilal with bits of gravel.

"Shit!" said Bilal. He zipped and reshouldered his pack and started walking again.

Ahead he saw a burger joint across the road on the riverbank. The bus had passed a lot of such places while rolling through the little towns: some, like those in West Oakland, had once been Foster Freezes or A & W Root Beers, but McDees, The King, and Jack In The Box had put them in the graveyard. This place was called The Burger Barge, but might have been a Tastee Freeze a million years ago. A weathered sign on a rusty pole showed a giant cheeseburger aboard a barge. A puffing tugboat towed the barge and looked like Little Toot. The building was made of cinder blocks, faded white and peeling paint. A rusty awning shaded the front, and there were a dozen wooden tables, the picnic kind with benches. Bilal first thought the place was closed, abandoned like the stores in town, but then he caught the scent of fries. And around the building were flowerbeds as neat as Jadd Taimur's. In the riverbank reeds behind the place was a short wooden dock and a little boat.

His stomach growled as his nose was haunted by ghosts of sizzling meat. But then he saw the school ahead. He fingered Devon's silver charm beneath his sweaty shirt."Business first, man, burgers later. ...Alligator."

The school looked like the school in The Birds. It was two scabby stories of weathered white boards and stood in a weedy yellow field. To the right were rusty monkey-bars and other ancient iron things too dangerous for Oakland parks. Even parks where kids were capped. To the left was a crumbling basketball court with leaning poles and netless hoops. Behind was a dusty baseball diamond, a wooden backstop and rickety bleachers. A faded scoreboard across the field displayed the face of a snarling raccoon done in a bootlegged Disney style. RUST RACCOONS was painted above, and the mascot's name was, naturally, Rusty.

Boys were playing flag football while a coach who looked like a wannbe Rambo -- and way too old to play the part -- was yelling curses at them. The boys were mostly middle-school age, one team shirts, the other skins, and all pouring sweat in the blazing sun. Their shirts were the color of old life-jackets, their shorts as green as the grass should have been... Freddie Kruger colors. Most of the dudes were white but tanned as if they lost their shirts a lot, and several were factory brown, but nobody seemed to be black. A few were chubby or fat; and a pair of copper-colored boys with long black hair almost down to their waists, huge hanging bellies halfway to their knees, and chests like wobbling water-balloons were waddling slowly around a track in the usual pointless punishment for the sin of being obese. ...At least Bilal assumed they were boys because they didn't have shirts.

A girl's class played on a basketball court with a coach who looked like Godzilla's mom and sounded about the same. The girls were white or brown like the boys, and more than a few were super-size. But, except for the sweating P.E. classes, a rusty rack of bicycles, a few dirt-bikes and ATVs, and pickups and cars in a weedy lot, the school looked as dead as the town.

Bilal came up the cracked sidewalk across a yellow lawn. The underarms of his shirt were soaked, and sweat was trickling down his face. A porcelain plaque above the doors said THEODORE RUST MEMORIAL SCHOOL, 1923. That seemed to explain the name of the town and everything rusty about it. The brass door handles were half worn away from being grasped by a million small hands, and the hinges made a Munsters sound. It felt hotter inside than out in the sun. There was no guard or weapons detector. The air smelled of dust, old wood and kid sweat. A hall ran the length of the building, and sun glared in through open back doors revealing a glimpse of the copper fat boys who seemed to be sharing a candy bar as they casually waddled along. ...They had to be boys or else this place was really strange!

The hall was higher than it was wide. Its walls were painted a nasty green like demon puke in The Exorcist. It was lined with dented lockers, canned-pea green like Army Jeeps. The classroom door windows had wire in their glass like cop interrogation rooms, and their old-fashioned numbers were painted in gold. Dusty light fixtures like bowls of milk dangled on chains from the ceiling, but none were on and the hall was dark except for the patch of sun at the end. To the right was a three-faucet drinking fountain, chipped, yellowed, and streaked with rust. To the left was a staircase, its treads worn in hollows. Beyond the stairs were vending machines with candy bars, chips, Hostess fruit pies, cookies, Popsicles and Coke... the newest-looking things in the house. The usual stuff was tacked to the walls; little-kid drawings in waterpaint, most with Halloween themes, and anti-alcohol, drug, tobacco, gang, and obesity warnings. There were two posters for DARE. McGruff advised, "Take A Bite Out Of Crime," and a skinny cartoon kid was telling a fat one, "It's Cool To Be A Loser!" There was another poster of a stereotypical cartoon bully, a big fat kid with a pit-bullish face. His belly hung out of a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front, but his arms were around two smaller boys as if they were homies in Leave It To Beaver. The poster said STOP SCHOOL BULLYING, but didn't explain how that could be done.

Bilal considered the Coke machine but went to the drinking fountain instead. On the wall above were a few pencil scrawls -- Tad eats boogers, Swaggart sucks, Marie is a retard, and Goat Boy loves Satan, whatever that meant -- but nothing that looked like a gang tag. The water was warm and tasted like tin but at least it was wet and eased his thirst. He splashed a handful on his face and dried it with his shirt. Up the hall a little way was a sign on chains that said OFFICE. From behind closed doors came the murmur of kids and the boring drone of teachers. He wondered if anyone else was black besides himself and his cousin, but the wire glass windows were frosty white so he couldn't see into the rooms. The only other sound was a clatter of computer keys that came from the open office door. He stopped by a case of cheap trophies. All were tarnished and dusty, and many were projects for spiders. The newest was from a baseball game seven years ago. If it was cool to be a loser, the Rust Raccoons were freezerburn.

He wondered if he should wait and register on Monday; meet his cousins, check out his new crib. But, that would mean walking back to town, and it didn't seem smart to be cruising around, young, black, and toting steel. He tugged up his pack and entered the office.

The ceiling was high like the hallway, and bowls of milk dangled from chains. A fat pink woman who might have been fifty sat behind an Army-green desk that matched a row of file cabinets. Her computer was an ancient Mac, its keyboard as yellow as zombie teeth. A sign on the desk said Mrs. Wicket, though someone had messed with the T so it looked more like a D. A black iron fan rattled papers around, but didn't make anything cooler. The woman peered up over steel half-glasses, and the look on her face, mostly surprise, seemed to confirm Bilal’s suspicion that black kids were rare on this planet. She probably would have looked annoyed, bothered by any other kid, but seemed a little uncertain. Her eyes flicked to a purse on her desk.

"...Yes?"

"Um," said Bilal and tried Devon's smile, though his voice went white as snow again. "I need to register. For eighth grade."

Again the woman looked surprised, but then recovered and frowned. "You can't register yourself!" she snapped like he'd asked to piss on the floor. "Your parents or guardian have to do it."

Bilal pulled out an envelope. "I'm supposed to give this to the principal."

The woman eyed him curiously, realized that, morphed back to a frown, studied the letter suspiciously, then glanced at a door behind her: PRINCIPAL was painted in gold across its frosted window. "Give it to me. ...Sit down over there." She pointed to a wooden bench where a million little squirming butts had probably waited for punishment. The world seemed full of nasty benches and people with attitudes at desks. The woman took the envelope as if it might be anthrax. She got to her feet, hesitated, then put her purse in a drawer. Then she knocked on the principal's door, waited a moment and finally went in, leaving it open a little.

Bilal's legs were tired but he stayed on his feet. He glanced at a fly-speckled clock on the wall, surprised to see it was almost 2:30. That trigged a growl in his stomach... he should have bought a burger. At least a candy bar. More posters hung on the demon-puke walls, including the blubbery bully and friends. He noticed a dusty painting of a big fat man in an old-fashioned suit who looked like Uncle Fester. On the frame was a tarnished brass tag: Theodore Wormington Rust. A minute later the woman returned looking more curious than ever. "Go in," she said, stepping aside as if Bilal was catching.

The principal's office was even hotter, demon-puke green with a milk-bowl light and reeked of old tobacco smoke. Another antique iron fan rattled papers like dead autumn leaves but only blew the heat around. Two tall windows were open, the sunlight filtered through rust-colored shades and giving the room a moldy glow. From outside came the squeals of girls and the roars of the coach cursing boys. A bony white man who looked like the preacher in Poltergeist II sat behind another green desk. His face was skullish with long gleaming teeth behind lips that didn't seem able to close, and his white dress shirt looked old and yellowed like something dug up from a crypt... or maybe it was only the light. He was tightening his tie as Bilal came in, his hands like twitching corpse's claws. On his desk was a butt-filled ashtray, and a haze of smoke still hung in the air despite the rattling fan. He studied Bilal from deep-set eyes that looked like empty holes. It was hard for a skull to look curious -- or much of anything else -- but this one didn't look happy. The bony hands gripped Bilal's letter, open on the desktop. A hollow voice said, "Close the door, Mr. ...Taimur. Did I pronounce that correctly?"

"Yea... yes, sir," said Bilal.

A skeletal finger pointed. "Please sit down. You may take off your pack if you wish. My name is Mr. Skelly."

Bilal wondered if the man was joking but then decided he wasn't. "Hi. Thanks." His voice came out white but he couldn't stop it. He closed the door behind him, glimpsing the woman who looked disappointed, then shrugged off his pack and sat down on a chair that felt like a torture device.

Mr. Skelly regarded the letter, then cleared his throat with a death-rattle sound. "I've already gotten an e-mail from the principal of your former school. He said you've been a good student." The empty eye-sockets studied Bilal as if trying to X-ray his oversize clothes. "Though your grades in physical-fitness leave a lot to be desired. I would have thought you were obese. Still, I'm impressed by your other grades... though your school may have lower standards than mine." He looked a little uncomfortable... pretty hard for a skull to do. "You've been in trouble with the law?"

"No, sir," said Bilal. "I got in trouble because of the law." He smiled like Devon again. "I tried to take a bite out of crime, but it bit me back."

The skull didn't look amused. "I hope you don't have an attitude problem."

Bilal wasn't sure how to answer that. "I'm hoping to go to college."

"...Good," said the skull, though seeming surprised. "What are you planning to study?"

"Horror movie filmography. I wanna do FX."

"...FX?"

"Special Effects. Like ghosts an'... monsters." Bilal had almost said skeletons, and Mr. Skelly was his own FX.

"...Interesting," said the skull. "I'm pleased to hear that you have goals. So many young people today just drift through life like..."

"Ghosts in a graveyard?" suggested Bilal before he thought about it.

"...An interesting simile... do you know what a simile is?"

"A metaphor with 'like' in front."

"Very good. So you realize the importance of studying hard and applying yourself. Thinking about your future. ...And staying of out trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Skelly opened a drawer and took out a big brown envelope. "Your transfer came last week, but I must say this is unusual. At least in this school district. We don't have these kinds of... problems here. And we certainly don't want them."

"I didn't want them myself," said Bilal.

The skull seemed to listen for attitude, then maybe decide it hadn't heard any. "Your principal didn't give any details about the nature of your... problem. But I understand the police were involved?"

"Yes, sir," said Bilal. "But I'm not supposed to talk about it. I guess you could call OPD."

"Who?" asked Mr. Skelly.

"Oakland Police Department. Maybe Detective Thorne."

"I have." The skull looked annoyed. "He wasn't very helpful. But, I assume it's for your safety. In other words, you've been a victim?"

Bilal frowned but nodded.

The skull looked uncomfortable again. "You're a Muslim?" he asked, pronouncing it moose-lem.

"...Sorta," said Bilal.

"What do you mean?"

"...Well..." Bilal said carefully. "Are you a Christian, sir?"

The skull pondered that for a moment. "I don't attend church, though I do believe in a... higher power. But I thought your religion was... a bit more strict."

Bilal smiled. "Like, 'Anyone who works on the Sabbath Day must be put to death'?"

The skull looked startled. "Is that in the Koran?"

"The Bible. But maybe it's a metaphor."

"...I... may see your point," said the skull. "But, your religion has nothing to do with... your problem?"

"No," said Bilal.

Mr. Skelly glanced at the door where a shadow had darkened the glass. He flicked a switch on an old intercom that looked like something from Frankenstein's lab. "Mrs. Wicket? Will you get me a cup of coffee, please?" He waited until the woman replied with a scratchy cat sound from the speaker, then faced Bilal again. "By state and federal regulations we shouldn't be talking about religion. If you'd rather not I understand."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

The skull seemed to ponder again. "This is a small rural school in a small and rural community where people generally get along. As you may have noticed it's mostly... white, though many farm workers are Hispanic. We also have a few Asians, and there is a small reservation of Native-American families. I'm not prejudiced, Mr. Taimur... of religion or of race... and I want you to know you can trust me." He slipped Bilal's letter into the envelope, put the envelope in a drawer and locked it with a small brass key, which seemed a bit dramatic. "I don't want to know what your problem was. And no one else here will know you had one." He looked uncomfortable again. "And, no one has to know..." He cleared his throat. "Not that I'm suggesting..." The skull looked very unhappy now. "You don't openly practice... Islam? Praying all day and... that sort of thing."

"Not for awhile," said Bilal. "Since my parents..." He stopped then said, "Which makes my grandfather sad."

The skull looked relieved. "My mother was religious. ...Not fanatical, of course. But she may have felt like your grandfather does when I stopped attending church in my teens."

"I think I understand," said Bilal.

"Are you questioning your faith?"

"I'm questioning lot of things."

"That's perfectly normal at your age. ...You don't object to Christmas? We have a school tree and a manger scene."

Bilal shrugged. "I always gave my friend a present, an' he always gave me one. That kinda stuff makes people happy. Christmas trees an' Easter eggs. Ramadan an' Kwanza. Only a stupid hater would hate them, or try an' make trouble for people who like them."

"That's a very tolerant point of view. One should always be tolerant of other people's differences. But, religious beliefs aside, you're our first African-American student. And that, of course, is obvious."

Now it was Bilal who looked startled. He almost asked about his cousin... but maybe it was best to stay cool?

"As I said," the skull went on, "I'm not in the least prejudiced. I served in Vietnam with many of... your people. But neither am I a Pollyanna. ...Do you know what that means?"

"Um," said Bilal. "Somebody who thinks, like, everybody is basically good if you just give them a chance to show it?"

The skull almost smiled, though Bilal was glad it didn't. "I doubt if many students here would know the definition." But then it frowned as the boys' coach yelled, "Move it, you fat little blanket-asses!" ...Whatever that meant. Finally it studied Bilal again. "You sound like an intelligent young man, so I won't put a candy coating on this. Problems often follow your people. ...African-Americans." He rose and went to the windows, his thin shape stark against the sun as he raised a shade and looked out... a skeleton waiting for sunset to go and haunt somebody. "Rust may not be a pretty town, at least aesthetically. ...Do you know what that means?"

"How it looks?" asked Bilal, thinking of candy and wishing he'd bought some.

"Good," said Mr. Skelly. "But, while we have a few minor problems... underage drinking, a bit of 'weed'... there is no gang violence or crack in this town, and many people still don't lock their doors. There hasn't been a... murder... here since 1899. The people here may seem a bit slow compared to those you're used to... maybe not very 'hip' or 'down with what's up'... but they all have eyes in their heads, and they notice anything different. ...Such as drugs or crime." He dropped the shade and faced Bilal. "Do we understand each other?"

Bilal's voice slipped back to normal... at least what he'd thought was normal. "People are gonna be watchin' me to see if I'm a monkey."

The skull frowned. "That sounds like attitude."

"No, sir, it's just a metaphor."

"...I see," said Mr. Skelly though he obviously didn't. He returned to his desk, and Bilal expected a clicking sound as his bony butt met the unpadded chair. "I'll have Mrs. Wicket type your schedule and give you a copy of our rules." He scanned Bilal's jeans. "Which include a dress code. ...May I ask you to raise your shirt?"

Bilal pulled his shirt up to his chest.

"No looser or lower than that."

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you're not becoming obese. You could lose a little weight."

And you should gain a ton! thought Bilal. "I'm also tolerant of people's size."

"...Yes," said the skull. "It's easy to forget, er... size discrimination in a culture where health is important."

"Or just looks?" suggested Bilal. He realized that his white voice was useful; it seemed to make white people think he was smart. "We're taught that some looks are better than others, even if they're not."

"...Well... unfortunately that's true." Mr. Skelly seemed to sigh. "But the new state guidelines emphasize health so I'm forced to at least make a comment whenever a student is overweight."

The coach's voice roared again, "You got tits like a girl, you want ovaries, too?"

The skull really sighed. "But, back to the matter at hand. No graphic T-shirts with violent, obscene, or hateful motifs, including drugs or alcohol."

"Yes, sir."

"Graffiti is an instant suspension... I assume you call it 'tagging'?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I ask what you're wearing around your neck?"

Bilal pulled out the chain. "Anubis."

"Is that an Islamic symbol?"

"No, sir."

"Why do you wear it?"

"It belonged to a friend of mine."

"Nothing to do with gangs?"

"No, sir."

"Then it's acceptable jewelry... 'bling' perhaps?"

Bilal caught himself before rolling his eyes. "Some people call it that."

"Any... er, tattoos?"

Bilal felt Devon's smile again. "No, sir." Then he added innocently. "I can take off my clothes if you wanna check."

That got past the attitude radar, and Mr. Skelly looked startled. "That... won't be necessary. But, of course you'll be dressing down for P.E."

Bilal sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Our school gym clothes are twenty-dollars... twenty-five for triple-X sizes... but if you need financial assistance..."

"I might," said Bilal. He thought about the long-haired boys who might have paid fifty for only their shorts.

"I'll make a note of that. ...No wireless phones on campus."

"Yes, sir."

"And, of course, no weapons or firearms."

"Of course," said Bilal.

"The standard lunch is two dollars a day, though assistance is also available."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

"Good. And there are vending machines in the hall. Their proceeds help maintain our school."

"You got a lot of good stuff."

"Have a lot of good stuff."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Of course, the students' likes and dislikes determine the selections."

"Nobody ate fruit at my school either unless it was a roll-up."

"...Yes. And, this is a closed campus." Mr. Skelly smiled like a nightmare. "No sneaking out to the Burger Barge, but the Tugboat Triple 'rocks'."

"Yes, sir."

In the distance, from down the road, a hoarse iron bell clanked three times. Beware the cracked chimes of Saint Toads, thought Bilal.

Mr. Skelly glanced at his watch. "Since we're halfway through last period, it might be more convenient for you to start on Monday."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, Mr. Taimur." The man extended a grisly hand. "Welcome to Theodore Rust Memorial."

Bilal took the hand, which felt like bones in a paper towel. "Thank you, sir."

"By the way," said the skull as Bilal got his pack and turned to leave. "I'm sure Coach Swaggart would welcome you on our basketball team."

"I'm not very good at sports," said Bilal.

The skull looked disappointed.

Bilal's shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he reached the Burger Barge. He would have taken it off, but why advertise the "obvious?" He wasn't supposed to attract attention -- another warning from Thorne -- but after talking with Mr. Skelly he felt like he was in an airport wearing a burnoose.

The tempting aroma of burgers and fries ghosted above the smell of hot road. A semi-truck sat in the dirt parking lot, its engine idling smoke from the stack. Its double trailers were loaded with hay bales that towered over the truck itself like the giant cheeseburger loomed over the tug. A white guy who looked like a cowboy was sitting at one of the tables with a bottle of Bud and a big juicy burger. An ancient rock song by Creedence Clearwater bumped from an equally ancient jukebox. The man glanced up as Bilal walked by, but didn't seem to see any "problems."

Bilal went to the order window and scanned the chalky menu board. Inside the steamy kitchen, among the usual shake machines, softee dispenser and bubbling deep-fryer, a big brawny woman was scraping the grill. She was clad in a grease-spattered apron, a white T-shirt, faded blue-jeans, and a ragged-looking captain's cap. She had iron-gray hair and a weathered bronze face, and was smoking a nasty little cigar that looked like a piece of Slim Jim. She looked up and smiled then came to the counter, wiping her hands on a dishrag. "What'll it be, my man?"

"My man" sounded natural if long out of date, surprising Bilal a little. His stomach growled as he studied the menu. "Um, what's good?"

The big woman boomed out a laugh. "Ain't nothin' bad in my galley, son! But you ain't gonna find no 'healthy' crap here. No garden burgers or vegetable dogs, or something that looks like a dung-beetle rolled it onto your plate. An' nothin' that's only 'light' on taste an' pretending to be what it ain't. Just real honest food like I grew up eatin'. I'm seventy-three, wanna arm wrestle?"

Bilal smiled. "I'm sure you could beat me."

The woman's voice was deep and rough as if she had yelled a lot in her life, and the blue of her eyes was startling in the old-penny tan of her face. "Just passin' through?"

Bilal hesitated; but he couldn't pretend to be what he wasn't. At least the obvious part. "I... might be gonna live here awhile. Just registered at school."

"Meet the skull?" asked the woman.

"Yeah."

"Thought you was lookin' a little haunted. Skelly could give a baby night terrors, but he ain't a bad guy an' he runs a good school. Rust Raccoons never win any games but they learn the three Rs better than most. An' Rust itself ain't a bad little town. What's left, anyhow. Most people are good if you give 'em a chance." She turned to gaze at the sun-shimmered channel. "Been all up an' down the Delta. Ran a tug for forty years. Wanted me someplace on the water where I could watch the tows go by." She blew out a cloud of nasty smoke. "But, ain't much passin' here no more 'cept people fishin' an' cruisin' houseboats." She frowned at the cowboy-driver. "Trucks took over most of the freight, an' dredging the channel ain't 'green.' Bad for some kinda salamanders who ain't got the brains to evolve. Bridge ain't opened but twice this year. Nothin' big enough."

"Guess you been here a long time," said Bilal.

The woman smiled and looked at the school. "Seen a lot of kids grow up. Never had time for none of my own." She thrust a hand over the counter. "Name's Annie. It's like a joke, but you're too young to get it."

"Bilal," said Bilal, shaking Annie's hefty hand.

"Glad to meet you, Bilal. My engineer was black an' we never had a breakdown." Annie boomed another laugh. "Guess you could call it black power. Wish I coulda married that man but he was already taken. The good ones always are."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "Um... are there any black people in town?"

"One in the graveyard. ...Most of him, anyway."

"...Huh?"

"Used to be the bridge tender." Annie glanced at the rusty old bridge down the channel a mile away. "Hoist gear jammed an' then let go while he was tryin' to clear it. Chopped his head right off his shoulders! Still ain't found it to this day. Nice fella, too. Everyone liked him. Most of the town showed up for his funeral, even a couple of injun families... closed coffin, of course."

Bilal felt suddenly confused. Jadd had told him his uncle had died -- in an accident on a bridge -- but, what about his cousins? They had to be "obvious," too.

"Was he a relation of yours?" asked Annie. "Sorry about the head if he was."

Bilal hesitated again: it was hard to be sad about somebody's head when you'd never known the person inside it. Thorne had warned him several times not to talk about his past. It had taken hours to get here on a bus that stopped in every town, but Oakland wasn't far away; probably less than an hour by car.

"No," he said. And maybe it wasn't a lie... after all, he didn't know yet. "So, what's really good? Like, hot an' a lot for a Lincoln or less?"

"Try the Tugboat Triple," said Annie. "Three big juicy patties of real honest meat, three kinds of cheese, Cheddar, Mozzarella an' Swiss, plus tomato, lettuce, pickle an' onion. Special comes with Swab Bucket Fries an' a Tanker size Coke."

"Right on," said Bilal.

Bells jangled back at the school as he took a seat at one of the tables. He watched as the doors burst open and kids poured out like a river in flood. Boys began to lose their shirts and forbidden phones appeared everywhere. Many kids went to the bicycle rack where nothing seemed to be locked. Others mounted dirt-bikes, kicking starters and revving engines, while others fired-up ATVs. Across the road was a dock like Annie's, and several kids got into boats, pulling starters and whooshing away. More kids boarded an old yellow bus, while others just walked down the road. Like the gym classes he'd seen on the field, most of the kids seemed to be white. Hispanics were well represented, and there were a dozen Indian boys, all with long hair, all chubby or fat, including the two enormous dudes. He also noticed a handful of Asians.

But, where in hell was his cousin? Maybe he schooled at home? Or, maybe he went to a private school? Maybe even a Muslim school... there was probably one in Stockton, not too far away. But, unless his cousins were fundamental, strictly devout -- or maybe just weird -- they would have eaten at Annie's like any other normal kids, and Annie would have seen them. Muslims probably weren't popular here with all the hate and ignorance ranted in blogs and spewed on TV; the storekeeper thought they were worse than Walmart, and the skull had advised him to stay on the under... at least without actually saying it. But the bridge tender seemed to have been well-liked. He had to have been Bilal's uncle; a black man killed in a bridge accident couldn't have been a coincidence.

But, maybe he'd converted to whatever went to Saint Toads? Ate pancake breakfasts after prayer and never had to fast? Or, maybe he'd just rejected religion and done the right thing on his own? Married -- maybe -- and raised two kids. Become a part of this little town. So, maybe his cousins weren't Muslim?

But, they still had to be black.

Bilal tried to figure things out: had his cousins moved since their father was killed? But, Jadd had written to them in Rust only a few days ago. He pulled the address from his pocket, blurry because of his sweat: 13 Channel Road, Rust. Had the letter been forwarded somewhere else and his grandfather hadn't noticed?

He suddenly felt confused and alone. What should he do if his cousins weren't here? Catch a Greyhound back to Oakland? Then what? He didn't know where his grandfather was, and wouldn't know until he wrote. He could probably stay with Devon's mom, but that would mean going back to the 'hood. And putting her in danger. He could always run to the cops, but they would lock him up somewhere, even if they called it a home. Akeem had given Bilal his card, along with his e-mail and home phone number. Akeem and Mark would help him... but they'd already risked their jobs and lives to get him here alive.

He shoved the paper back in his pocket. He wasn't a scared little baby-ass kid slinking away from a bully at school. He'd done what any good man would do; he should be acting like a man, thinking of others instead of himself.

He felt a gentle urge to pray, like his grandfather's hand on his shoulder, to ask for Allah's guidance and maybe His forgiveness. ...But, was he being punished for questioning his faith? His parents were dead, Devon was dead, and Jadd had lost his home. Would Allah punish others because Bilal had strayed?

Annie's voice boomed from the window: "Tugboat Triple Special!"

Bilal had turned toward the east, away from the brassy afternoon sun. It said in the Koran that Allah's mercy prevailed over His anger... but maybe he had to earn that mercy instead of asking for it?

Bilal took his food to the farthest table overlooking the little boat dock in the reeds. He shed his pack before sitting down, then unwrapped the monster burger, a triple tower of meat and cheese that promised a party in his mouth. The cowboy-driver dropped his trash in a rusty, topless oil drum and walked to his idling truck. Air brakes hissed and the truck rumbled off with its tottering trailers of hay. Kids from school began to arrive, the bratty dirt-bikes coming first and skidding up dust in sideways stops, followed by foot-powered BMXs that copied the motorized moves. Most of the riders were shirtless, and few wore safety helmets.

A pair of ATVs roared in, driven by the Indian dudes Bilal had seen on the field. They seemed to be twins and still looked like girls, their long raven hair halfway down their backs, their huge hips and bottoms ballooning their jeans, and boy-breasts exploding from skimpy wife-beaters that clung like paint to their coppery rolls. Their cheeks engulfed their noses, and their eyes were only obsidian slits. They had little rosebud Chucky lips but without the evil expression, and looked half morphed into their machines like rolly-poly ponies with wheels.

Other boys and girls rolled up on mountain bikes and cruisers, followed by the kids on foot. The bigger dudes, seventh and eighth graders, naturally got to order first, some escorting girlfriends.

Bilal noticed some of the younger boys glancing nervously back at the school. They looked like kids in Oakland who'd gotten word of a driveby. Then he heard an iron chugging that sounded like a big lawnmower. Down the road from the school parking lot came an old dinosaur of a minibike. It had twelve-inch tires worn half bald and a frame that looked like water pipe, and was either painted faded orange or maybe only rusty. Its huge one-cylinder engine looked like something powered by steam and was guarded by heavy steel mesh. Its tiny headlight had no lens and looked like a tunafish can. Its chain was loose and rattling, and it farted a trail of oily blue smoke.

Two boys were riding the ancient machine. The driver looked like a visual joke; like the rusty RUST sign at the rusty old bridge. Halloween wasn't until next week so he probably wasn't in costume, but he could have been the poster-boy for the Stop School Bullying cartoon. In fact, he looked like the cartoon bully in Creepshow II. His blubber-bulked arms were massive in a black T-shirt that was faded to gray. Its sleeves were hacked off at the shoulders, and the shirt was stretched over heavy boy-breasts. The rolls of his waist wobbled out on each side, while his belly poured over the bike's gas t.ank. He wore old Levis 501s. A knee was ripped and the cuffs were in ribbons that trailed the ground like zombie rags. His butt was mostly bare on the seat, and his feet were clad in motocross boots with wickedly armored heels and toes. What might have been a pit-bull's chain was wrapped around one of the boots. Another chain tethered his wallet to a studded biker belt. On both chubby wrists were spiked fighting cuffs. On eight chubby fingers were heavy brass rings with colored glass stones -- red, yellow, green and blue -- the kind you ordered from comic books. They were usually advertised as "stunning"... and were if you hit somebody. His double-chinned face with chipmunk cheeks was set in a looking-for-trouble snarl, and a cigarette hung from the side of his mouth. His hair was black and curly, tumbling over brawny shoulders and totally hiding his eyes. His face and arms looked more dirty than tanned, a sort of dusky, smoky shade, though the underside of his belly was pale where it couldn't be touched by the sun.

Bilal thought of fat Italian kids like gangsters' sons in movies, stuffing down pizza in smoky back rooms while their fathers planned hits and extortion. But, whatever he was he was big, a few inches taller than Bilal, and probably twice his weight. He'd be slow in a fight but hard to hurt with all that blubber for armor. And those rings and spikes would leave nasty wounds.

The boy at his back made a stark contrast; a fair and flawless Elfquest male, darkly tanned with bright blue eyes. His silky hair was silvery gold and flowed in ripples down his back as long as the Indian dudes'. He wore big-jeans as loose and low as Mr. Skelly allowed, their cuffs hiding all but the toes of his sneaks. His blue checkered shirt was unbuttoned, showing a six-pack and high-jutting pecs as square as bricks, though he looked toylike behind the fat dude and was probably three inches shorter. His face was also set in a scowl complete with punky cigarette. There wasn't much room on the minibike's seat, and his own tight bottom hung off the back, his arms around the blubbery boy.

A bully usually had a posse, and another boy pedaled an old BMX following the minibike. He also fronted a cigarette snarl but wasn't smoking tobacco. Bilal had never seen a goat except in movies and on TV, but this dude actually looked like one! Bilal remembered a Lovecraft story about an evil "goatish boy" who'd terrorized a town. The dude had an almost chinless face with a nearly bridgeless puggy nose. His eyes were narrow, a strange yellow shade, and tilted up at the corners, while his two front teeth might have opened bottles. His tangled brown hair was shoulder-length and oily as a junkyard dog's. He was probably twelve, thirteen at most, but his cheeks and jaw were fuzzy with down, including a smudge above his lips, while his forearms were actually furry. His body was sloppy, more flabby than fat, like a stoner kid addicted to munchies. His belly spilled out of a rat-colored 'beater, and a line of fuzz ran down from his navel to disappear under its roll. Bilal thought of a picture he'd seen in a book of a goat boy playing a flute in a forest. ...Wasn't that called a faun? The only thing missing was horns on his head, but maybe, like Hellboy, he'd cut them off.

The minibike chugged to a stop with a teeth-gritting squeal from its rear wheel brake. The fat dude killed the engine by grounding out the spark plug and dropped the stubby kickstand. He peered around like a predator, though Bilal wondered how he could see: if his nose had been black and shiny he would have looked like a fat sheepdog. His blond companion slid off the seat and posed with hands on narrow hips. His shirt spread open to showoff his chest, while his saggers slipped illegally low, flashing six inches of snowy-white shorts. He was spotless compared to the other two boys, his clothes all clean and fairly new; and his body, except for the cigarette, was a health-nazi's dream of teenage perfection.

"Goat boy" rolled up on his BMX, dropped the bike in the powdery dust and tried to strike a pose like the blond. His ragged jeans were cartoonishly huge... maybe to hide his furry goat legs? The cuffs puddled over his tattered sneaks, which were also comically oversize... maybe to camouflage his hooves?

The fat dude got off the minibike, his belly hanging out of his shirt like all the cartoon stereotypes. An old rock song bumped on the jukebox. Bilal always pictured a Kid Bop vid whenever he heard that song: a bunch of third-graders howling, "Welcome to the jungle, baby, now you're gonna diiiiiie!"

The older dudes and their girlfriends had gotten their food and were sitting at tables, talking and eating, yacking on phones. Several had fired cigarettes, and tobacco smoke mingled with scents of fried meat, fresh salty fries and hot melted cheese. Only the younger boys looked wary, watching the bully and posse. Several had left the order line and were edging toward their bikes. A skinny sixth-grader reached his cruiser.

"You!" yelled the goat boy. He dropped the butt of his smoke and swaggered up to the smaller kid. "Get me a Tugboat Triple, dork! Swab Bucket Fries an' a Tanker Coke! ...No, make it a shake... vanilla!"

The younger boy sighed and went back to the line.

"Give him firsts!" yelled goat boy, his voice breaking into a bleat, and the other kids shuffled aside. Bilal remembered the pencil tag above the drinking fountain at school: Goat Boy loves Satan. This could have been his son.

The big fat dude was scanning around, taking his time choosing a victim. His unseen eyes beneath his hair seemed to find Bilal and lock.

Shit! thought Bilal. That was all he needed! To get in a fight on his first day here! That would attract attention, as if he'd arrived in a Hummer stretch! Could he put the big dude on his back? But, what about his dogs? Goat boy wasn't much of a threat, small, stoned, and out of shape, but the muscular blond would be fast. Bilal thought of the gun, but that was stupid! Better to take a beat-down than pull the steel and go to prison.

He could feel the fat boy's unseen eyes probably trying to rate him. Despite the myths in Disney movies, not all bullies were cowards who backed away from real fights. He thought about stripping off his shirt to show despite his chubbiness he wouldn't be an easy mark, but then the fat dude turned away. He seemed a little uncertain, but maybe he didn't want to fight when there was lots of easy prey? He walked with a swaggering waddle, his belly swinging side-to-side. His wallet and boot chains jingled and clinked, sounding like spurs in a cowboy movie. The blond boy followed as quiet as cats, while goat boy also shuffled along, maybe for experience. The fat dude stepped to the Indian twins, snagging a fistful of one boy's shirt and almost ripping it off.

"Your turn, blanket-asses. Tugboat Triples for me an' Shawn! Big fries, Cokes, an' blueberry sundaes!"

The twins looked resigned in stereo and joined the other victim. A few older kids had been watching, but they probably saw this every day and nobody said anything. The other younger boys had chilled, beginning to max and goof around like everything was cool again... the lion had made his kill, so the rest of the antelope were safe. At least for today. Bilal went back to his burger. At least he knew what blanket-ass meant. He'd finish his food, go back to town and check out his cousins' address. If they had moved he'd call Akeem.

Out on the road passed a group of boys in school gym shorts and dusty sneaks, jogging in that weary way of kids with many miles to go and no reward for getting there. They ranged from skinny to borderline fat, but all were panting and pouring sweat and looked like a bunch of tortured souls being herded to hell by a demon... in this case the coach in Freddy's track suit who cruised behind in a topless Jeep.

"Don't even think about it, girls!" he yelled as the sweating boys slowed down to wistfully gaze at the kids drinking Cokes. "We're gonna win this year, goddammit!" He looked like he wished he had a whip, and bellowed at the chubbiest boy, who was naturally plodding last. "Move it, fatass! ...All of you run like little gay boys!" He revved the Jeep a little and almost rammed the chubby kid. Then he cut close to the parking lot. "Shawn!" he yelled to the muscular elf. "It's not too late to get back on the team! We can beat Saunders Ferry this year!"

The bully's blond companion only scowled and ignored the man.

The coach and his panting boys went on, plodding down the road to Rust. Bilal returned to his burger. He heard the metallic jingle again and watched the fat dude waddle past from under lowered lashes. A wave of boy-sweat, grungy jeans, engine oil and Marlboro smoke filled the air around him. He kept his eyes down as the blond boy passed; only the rustle of dragging cuffs and maybe a whiff of Brut. Then goat boy. Bilal had heard that goats smelled bad, but this dude might have smelled bad to a goat. There was also the reek of middle-school weed.

Bully and posse went out on the dock toting their extorted food and losing their shirts before sitting down. The blond boy looked like Cutter the elf with all his pretty muscles. The fat dude might have been Kung Fu Panda, while goat boy looked like a failed experiment of crossing a goat with a flabby Teenwolf.

The other kids were leaving, mounting bikes, kicking starters, the Indian twins on their ATVs. They must have had plenty of wampum because each had ordered triple-Ts after treating the bullies. Other kids walked away down the road after tossing their trash in the oil drum. Annie was cleaning up inside, polishing the shake machine and singing a song about rolling in clover. The bell of Saint Toads clanked four times, and Bilal was downing the last of his fries when a 4X4 pickup, a hooptie 1970s Dodge, rattled into the parking lot. Its bed was loaded with hay bales, its battered body caked with dust. A Guns 'N Roses sticker adorned its cracked windshield, and its stereo blasted a Foo Fighters song. The driver and two companions looked like shirtless tenth-graders, white, tanned and wiry, all with rocker hair. The dudes got out like regulators. Bilal automatically scanned for steel but nobody seemed to be packing. One dude went to the minibike and gave it kick, knocking it over, which seemed to explain their mission. Then they headed for the dock, barely giving Bilal a glance and raising dust as they passed his table. Bilal gulped the last of his Coke. This would be a cool time to leave. Maybe Rust didn't have gangs, but there seemed to be plenty of teen terrorists.

Bilal was gathering up his trash as the last of the other kids left, mounting their bikes or walking toward town. The jukebox ended another rock song and everything was quiet again. A gang of crows came flapping down to gobble bits of burger buns and scraps around the tables. The three big dudes had reached the dock. One, a blond and totally ripped, stabbed a finger at the elf. "I told you not to hang with him!"

The elf kid leaped to his feet. "You ain't the boss of me!"

They were obviously brothers, and the big one yelled, "Get in the truck! ...NOW, asshole! I'll deal with you at home!"

The fat boy also got up, which took a lot of struggle. His blond companion hesitated but the fat boy gave him a nod. "It's cool, Shawn."

"But..."

"Go on, man." He spit at one of the bigger boys' sneaks, missing by an inch. "I ain't scared of these dog-blowin' dorks!"

The elf boy glared at his brother. "That's what you are!"

"GET IN THE TRUCK!" the bigger boy roared.

The elf kid hesitated again, but finally stalked away up the dock.

"Hey, goat boy!" yelled another big dude. "We don't wanna beat up a retarded freak, but you better take off or you're gonna get owned!"

Goat-boy glanced at the fat dude, who nodded, then scrambled up and ran away, cartoonishly in his huge dragging jeans.

Bilal stayed at the table, not wanting to attract attention by making any moves. The elf kid passed him muttering curses, climbed in the truck and slammed the door as if he wanted to break the glass. Goat-boy scuttled past Bilal, hopped his chopper and headed for town. Bilal knew he should vacate: the scene on the dock was deja vu, the three big dudes and their solo victim. He'd seen this shit a thousand times in schoolyards, parks, in alleys and streets; and being a witness had made him a victim. Still, he stayed at the table. He wondered why he couldn't leave: the fat boy was a bully. Why should he care if a bully got beat? He reached for his pack to put it on, but left it where it lay. His eyes went back to the dock. It was like a typical teen-slasher flick where some dim-witted dork went down to the basement no matter how stupid that was.

This bully wasn't a coward. He stood like a fat young lion at bay facing a pack of tigers. He should have looked ridiculous, his eyes still covered by his hair, his belly bobbing with his breaths, but there was a threat in those blubber-bulked arms, backed by the rings and those wicked spiked cuffs. The three big dudes stepped carefully, predators knowing their prey could bite.

Real fights never looked like in movies; things happened fast, almost too fast to follow, with no camera angles or close-up shots. The bully was fast for a big fat kid, but painfully slow compared to the others. Knocking over a tanker Coke, he got one punch at the first big dude, his rings smashing into the older boy's cheek like the smack of raw hamburger hitting a grill. The big dude looked surprised, backed away and cursed. But the other boys grabbed the fat kid, scattering half-eaten burgers and fries while pinning his arms behind his back. The first boy, jaw bleeding, began the beat-down. He didn't look very experienced, wasting a lot of body punches, his fists only bouncing off blubber, but he had all the time in the world.

Bilal knew it was stupid -- the same kind of stupid that had screwed up his life and almost gotten his grandfather shot -- but he was tired of being a witness to everything wrong in the world! A good man did something when bad things happened, he didn't just sit on his ass and watch! He jumped to his feet and ran to the dock. Halfway there he remembered the gun. Was he stupid to leave it? Or would he be stupider to bring it?

The two dudes pinning the fat boy were facing the shore and saw him coming. Their faces mirrored surprise. It took a second before one yelled, "Dennis, look out!"

The boy who was doing the beating spun around just in time to get Bilal's sneak in his crotch. He screamed like a girl and clutched himself, crashing down on the splintery boards, his face smooshing into a blueberry sundae. One of the other boys cursed. Bilal half expected the N-word but got the F one instead. The dude let go of the fat boy, cocked his fists and came at Bilal. The fat kid, gasping, streaming sweat, saw his chance and used his mass. He threw himself back on the boy holding him. The dude lost his balance then his grip, toppled backward off the dock and splashed into the water.

The other big dude flung a fist at Bilal, but had no moves and Bilal ducked away. The fat boy kicked the dude's knee from behind... that was a move and the boy flipped backwards, slamming down on the boards. The one in the water had pulled himself out, half entangled in slimy reeds like Jason coming out of the lake. He grabbed for something in the boat... a big steel hook on a short wooden club.

"Your back!" yelled Bilal as the dude swung the hook, trying for the fat boy's leg. The fat boy dodged, clumsily, but the hook only ripped his jeans. Panting, he stumbled to join Bilal, then awkwardly spun to face the attack. The other big boy snatched an oar from the boat. The dude still down was moaning, his face in a puddle of melted ice cream, but the other two boys advanced. The one with the hook snarled at Bilal, "Big mistake, whoever you are!"

Again, Bilal thought of the gun...

"That's enough!"

Annie appeared at the head of the dock, still in her apron, a dishrag in hand. "Michael! Bradley!" she bellowed. "Put those things back in my boat right now! An' if you ever touch 'em again I'll take a rope's end to your asses!"

Both big dudes seemed to suddenly morph into little boys caught boosting cookies. They returned their weapons to Annie's boat, laying them gently down. Annie studied the scene for a moment, the fat boy, nose bleeding, lip split, face bruised. His jeans had tumbled around his knees but his belly covered everything. Annie looked down at the boy on the boards, his face like a mime's with blueberry zits, his hands clamped over his private parts, then she turned to Bilal.

"Sorry about your welcome to Rust, but this ain't the normal state of affairs." She frowned at the panting fat boy. "Quentin, you had some this comin'!" She blew an exasperated sigh. "Why can't you just be nice, goddammit? Somethin' else happen like this on my watch, an' you're eighty-sixed! You hear me?"

"Yeah, Annie," the fat boy puffed.

Annie faced the two big dudes. "Same with you! Understand? You can all go to Ronald friggin' McDonalds down in Saunders Ferry!" She glanced at the scattered food on the dock, now being eyed by circling crows. "Try gettin' burgers like that from a clown!"

The bigger boys echoed the fat kid.

Annie regarded the groaning boy. "Put an ice pack on it, Dennis. Might keep 'em from turnin' blue for a week. ...Michael, Bradley, take him home. ...An' hope I don't call your parents!"

"Okay, Annie," said one of the boys.

Bradley and Michael got Dennis, moaning and muttering onto his feet and helped him stumble away. Annie waited until the truck rattled off, then gently wiped the fat boy's nose with the greasy-looking dishrag. He resisted a moment but then gave in and let himself be doctored.

"Ice will help with that, too," said Annie. "Don't seem like it's busted, but maybe it should be. ...You used to be such a nice boy, Quentin. What in hell's got into you?"

Quentin spit blood in the channel. "Got tired of bein' pushed around."

"I never seen any pushin'," said Annie. "Seems to me like you started pushin', an' dammed if I can figure out why."

Bilal's mouth had dropped open, hearing the fat dude's name. Now he scanned the boy again, looking for... he wasn't sure what. "Um?" he asked. "Quentin Tanner?" He couldn't see the fat dude's eyes, but he felt a kind of pleading look from under the curly tumble of hair.

"...Yeah," said the dude.

Annie was looking curious, and Bilal added quickly: "Somebody told me your name at school." He picked up Quentin's shirt and handed it to him.

"Thanks," said the fat boy, slinging the shirt over a shoulder. "An' for the help. ...Um, you need a ride to town?"

"...That would be cool," said Bilal, not knowing what else to say.

"Speakin' of help," muttered Annie. "Quentin, you clean up this mess! Crows can have the fries, but I don't want ants in the ice cream. Next they'll be in the softee maker. There's a bucket, wash it down."

Quentin groaned, but clumsily dropped to his hands and knees and started to gather the trampled feast. Bilal crouched down beside him. "I'll do it, man, you get the bucket."

Annie untied her apron. "Stow the trash in this."

Bilal scooped partly-eaten burgers, paper cups and wrappings into Annie's apron. One of the Cokes had survived, and Quentin quickly gulped it down before snagging the bucket and splashing the dock.

"Just try an' be good," growled Annie, as Quentin finished the washdown. "I don't wanna see no more bully crap, an' don't you think I haven't. What goes around, comes around, Quentin. In case you ain't got the message today."

"Yeah, Annie. ...Sorry." Slinging his shirt back over a shoulder, Quentin waddled away.

Annie smiled at Bilal as he gave her the bundled apron. "You did a good thing, my man, comin' to Quentin's rescue. Michael, Bradley an' Dennis ain't 'bad'... watched 'em grow up since kindergarten. They wasn't out to kill nobody, though things got a little lively there after you joined in. But Quentin's been pickin' on Bradley's brother... shakin' him down anyway." She glanced at Quentin's rolly back as he waddled around the building. "Don't know what's got into that boy. He's got a good heart, he just seems a little confused this year."

"I... guess it's that age," said Bilal, feeling a lot of confusion.

Annie smiled again. "You look like you know who you are." She slapped Bilal's back, almost knocking him over. "Next Tugboat Triple's on me. Quentin too, if you take him in tow. Might be a good friend is all he needs."

"Looks like he's already got friends."

"Quentin's a hero to Jody," said Annie. "Stuck-up for Jody all his life. That's why I know he's got a good heart."

"You mean the little... um... furry kid?"

Annie nodded. "Jody ain't had it easy. His mom was supposedly 'scared by a goat'... not that I believe that bilge! He's got some kind of genetic thing. I looked it up on the web. Harmless, but it makes him different, an' ignorant people hate anything different. He's a good kid but a little slow, an' smokin' weed ain't speeded him up. Don't know why he started that crap... far as I know Quentin don't. But, like I said, his life's been rough. His father swore nothin' like that could be his an' run off a week after Jody was born. His mom couldn't look at him either an' dumped him on an aunt who drinks. Offered to take him myself... kinda grows on you after awhile... but then his aunt wouldn't get welfare. Lose her boozin' money."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "Guess you know everybody here."

Annie tossed a bit of bun to a crow who was hovering like a helicopter. "Know a lot more than I want to sometimes. Shawn... the blond boy... sorta took up with Quentin this summer. Kinda surprised me to see that, but maybe opposites do attract. Shawn used to be the school sports star. Raccoons almost won a few games when he played. But he ain't on none of the teams this year, though I can't say I blame him with Swaggart coachin'... that man's a bully if I ever seen one! I thought Shawn would be a good influence on Quentin; Shawn's always been a kind sorta kid, even with all them muscles, but they both started actin' real tough this summer. ...'Course, boys his age need a man around to show 'em what bein' a man's all about. Otherwise they start playin' parts like they see in movies an' on TV, which are usually nothin' but overgrown boys."

"...Yeah," agreed Bilal.

Annie smiled. "But I don't think Quentin can bully you, judgin' by what I seen just now." She gave Bilal a thoughtful look. "By the way, where...?"

"I better go," said Bilal. "...So... Quentin can put some ice on his nose."

"You're welcome aboard my barge any time."

"Thanks... Um, bye." Bilal hurried away before Annie could ask where he was staying in town. He should have seen that coming: he wasn't being careful! He was sweating as much as Quentin so he stripped off his shirt before snagging his pack, then dropped his trash in the oil drum. Quentin had righted the old minibike and seemed to be checking for damage, though the thing was a wreck anyway. Then he awkwardly mounted the battered machine, tied his shirt to the handlebars, and wrapped a rope on the engine's flywheel. After several puffing pulls the greasy engine sputtered to life, belching a cloud of oily blue smoke. On the heavy mesh around it, Bilal saw a tarnished brass tag: TOTE GOTE. This place was full of visual jokes.

"Woah!" said Quentin, scanning Bilal. "You're really black all over!"

"I noticed," said Bilal.

Quentin touched Bilal's silver charm with a chubby, grimy, finger. "Anubis?"

"Yeah," said Bilal. "Not many people would know that."

"Maybe I ain't as dumb as I look."

"Or as bad as you act?" said Bilal.

Quentin scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bilal only shrugged. Then he got on the back of the minibike's seat, his butt hanging off like the blond boy's had, and put his arms around Quentin as far as they would go, his hands disappearing in sweaty fat as if they were morphing together.

Quentin looked over his shoulder, his eyes still hidden under his hair. "Um, salaam."

"...Huh?" said Bilal.

"You don't understand salaam?"

"Duh!" snapped Bilal. "I don't understand what's goin' on! Why...?"

Bilal was burning with questions, but trying to hold onto sweat-slicked Quentin and keep half his butt on the minibike's seat wasn't the time to be asking. They weren't going much more than twenty, but the road was rough and full of potholes and the Tote Gote didn't have any springs. The oily exhaust smoke watered his eyes, and the engine's clattering battered his ears like the rattling hammer of full-auto fire. The loose chain nipped at his jeans cuffs, and the weathered pavement unrolling below would rip him to shreds if he fell. He jammed his chest to Quentin's back and clutched the dude like a mammoth squeeze toy.

It was less than a mile into town but it seemed like several light-years on only impulse power. At last they rolled up to the market and chugged to a stop in a cloud of blue smoke. Quentin reached under his belly and grounded-out the spark plug. The engine gave a final snort and graveyard silence settled. "Gotta get stuff for dinner," said Quentin.

Bilal hopped off the Tote Gote as if he'd been riding a demon's back like in The Exorcist II. "I wanna know what's goin' on!"

Quentin's voice hardened a little; a bully used to bullying. "I said, wait till we get home."

"...Aight," said Bilal, though feeling pissed and a little dissed.

Quentin dropped the kickstand, then got off the bike with a grunt. "Can you pull up my jeans?"

Bilal went behind the fat boy and yanked his jeans halfway up his butt.

"Thanks." Quentin bulldozed his belly up the steps and almost lost his jeans again. Panting, he paused to look down at Bilal. "You can leave your pack, nobody'll steal it."

Bilal wiped grit from his eyes. The tiny town looked even deader than when he'd arrived on the bus. There were no vehicles at the cafe, no people anywhere in sight, and the boarded windows of other buildings faced each other like blinded eyes across the empty street. "'Cause there's nobody here, or 'cause you'd beat 'em up?"

Quentin shrugged. "What you think?"

Leaving his pack on the minibike's seat, Bilal followed Quentin into the store.

The place might really have been a saloon back in the days when people rode horses. Its ceiling was high, lost in shadow, and one long counter along the back could have once been a bar, though now it was smothered with candy displays, disposable lighters and junkfood snacks. Bare bulbs dangled from frayed-looking wires, but none were on and most of the light came through grimy front windows heavily plastered with grocery ads. A few beer signs lit the rear of the room, along with the glow of a glass-fronted cooler, while stuffed deer's heads stared down from the walls, their yellow eyes seeming to hate being dead and wishing the same on the living. But except for those and the old western look the place could have been a Korean market on any corner in the 'hood. There were the same uncertain shelves with painfully narrow aisles between, sagging with strange and off-brand things that wouldn't be found at Safeway. A lot of the cans were dented, and some were missing labels, their contents printed with Magic Marker. The cereal shelf had Ruskets Flakes, whatever the hell they were. A small display offered Halloween gear; cheap costumes that would probably burn, and masks that would probably melt on your face like in the first Halloween movie. There were plastic skulls and skeletons, along with bags of nasty candy that only a starving rat would eat. There was also a pile of ugly pumpkins, many in strange or psychotic shapes as if they'd been grown in nuclear waste. A few rubber bats dangled on strings from what might have been an ancient gas light, and an equally ancient cash register, a greenish brass mechanical type, sat on one end of the bar. Lining the wall behind the bar were shelves with bottles of liquor and wine, cigars, tobacco and cigarettes.

"Did this used to be a saloon?" asked Bilal.

"Back in the gold-rush days," said Quentin, snagging a rusty cart by the door. "An' a whorehouse, too."

"Huh?"

"A house inhabited by whores."

"Or duh," said Bilal.

Quentin pushed the squealing cart between the rows of tottering shelves, the floorboards creaking under his weight, his passage marked by a ripple effect. Bilal looked around for the storekeeper, but no door buzzer or bell had rung and he didn't see the elderly man. He scanned for cameras but couldn't find any.

"You drink beer?" asked Quentin, stopping at the cooler, his sweaty body gleaming in the blue fluorescent glow.

Bilal shrugged. "Who don't?"

Quentin loaded two sixers of Bud in his cart, then grabbed a quart carton of milk and sloppily started chugging it.

"Where's the store guy?" asked Bilal.

Quentin came up for air and burped. "Probably takin' a nap. Usually does this time of day." He killed the rest of the carton and dropped it in the cart. "You like mutton chops?"

"What are they?"

"Lamb chops with an attitude."

"Huh?"

"From grown-up sheep. The Indians raise 'em. Guess you could call it organic."

"I don't give a shit if somethin's organic as long as it doesn't taste like shit."

"That's a healthy attitude. How many can you eat?"

"How big are they?"

Quentin held up a big chunk of meat.

"One's enough for me," said Bilal. "I'm totally stuffed from Annie's. That tugboat triple was off the hook."

"I didn't get to eat much of mine."

Bilal gave Quentin Devon's smile. "I noticed." He went to the long wooden bar while Quentin continued his shopping. Part of the counter was fronted with glass and there were guns inside; a pair of cowboy revolvers, several bad-ass automatics, and a handful of Saturday-nighters. There were also rifles and shotguns, along with bullets and shells. Bilal checked the ammunition; there was a box of 7.62 that might have fit his Tokarev. ...Of course he would throw it away. ...When he was sure he didn't need it.

Quentin clumped over with jingling chains like a fat outlaw kid from a time machine. "You like guns?"

Bilal shrugged. "Not when they're shootin' at me."

"I got one. A coach gun."

"That's cool," said Bilal, though he didn't know what a coach gun was.

Quentin rolled the rusty cart, containing a stack of mutton chops, a sack of potatoes, a dozen eggs, the sixers of beer, and a gallon of milk, up to the ancient register. Then he lumbered around to the cigarette rack and snagged a pack of Marlboros. "You smoke?"

"No."

Quentin tossed the pack in the cart then stabbed a key on the register. A little bell rang, and a tab popped up in the window: NO SALE. The drawer snicked open, revealing money.

"What you doin'?" demanded Bilal.

"Leavin' a note," said Quentin, taking a pencil and pad from the drawer.

"...Oh."

The sheepdog face regarded Bilal. "Think I was stealin' this stuff?"

"'Course not."

"You didn't steal nothin', did you?"

"Shit no!"

"Can you pull up my jeans again?"

"Can't you?"

"Yeah, but they're hard to reach."

Bilal went around the counter and yanked up Quentin's jeans.

"Thanks." Quentin reached under the counter and pulled out a brown paper bag. "Do somethin' else useful."

Bilal began to bag the things while Quentin printed ponderously. Bilal recognized the childish style from the letter Jadd had gotten.

Back on the Tote Gote from hell again, Bilal barely managed to stay on the seat while clutching the grocery bag in one arm and trying to cling to Quentin. Thankfully the ride was short, back up the street to the rusty old bridge where Quentin turned left on Channel Road. Beside the bridge stood a small wooden house. It looked like the houses that little kids drew, a simple square box with a high-peaked roof and a window with four panes of glass like a cross on either side of the door. Its yard was a jungle of dead yellow weeds behind a gap-toothed picket fence like rotted fangs in an animal snarl, while its rear jutted over the channel on posts. Huge weeping willows spread over the roof, surrounding the house with an island of shade, and the air was almost comfortably cool. Bilal studied bridge as they chugged to a stop. The traffic light was still glowing green. A rusty sign read: NOTICE OF 14 DAYS REQUIRED, and there was Quentin's mailing address.

"Required for what?" asked Bilal, getting gratefully off the bike as Quentin grounded the spark plug and the engine backfired and died.

"To open the bridge," answered Quentin. "When a boat wants to go through. They gotta send a letter fourteen days before. Then they got a six hour window."

Bilal looked up at the bridge again, its iron as orange as the old minibike in the reddening rays of the lowering sun. Halfway up the tower was a rusty little control house made of corrugated tin. "Somebody stays up there for six hours?"

"Yeah," said Quentin, dropping the minibike's kickstand. From down the road toward Annie's, the bell of Saint Toads clanked five times.

"So, now will you tell me...?" asked Bilal.

"Can you up pull up my jeans again?"

Bilal did it one-handed while holding the bag. "So...?"

"C'mon," said Quentin, climbing a single sagging step to the house's roofed front porch. Only a screen door guarded the crib, and it didn't seem to be locked. A small rusty sign above the door said: HIGHWAY DEPARTMENT, BRIDGE 13. Two other Tote Gotes stood on the porch, both stripped of parts like dissected corpses.

The house smelled mostly of Quentin, bitter boy-sweat, greasy jeans, oily hair, and Marlboro smoke. It had a Bates Motel kind of look, the furniture old enough to be old but not old enough to be worth anything. The small living room was filled by a couch, a coffee table, a brass floor lamp, and an old TV on a wooden stand. At least there was a cable box. The floor was bare boards where dust-bunnies ruled. Behind the couch were three open doors, the middle one showing a long-legged stove and an old-fashioned fridge with its motor on top. The right-hand door showed a little bedroom with a rumpled unmade bed, while the door on the left showed a tiny bathroom with an ancient high-tank toilet.

"Put the grub in the kitchen," said Quentin, then clumped into the bathroom and didn't close the door. Water-sound echoed loudly as Bilal took the groceries into the kitchen and set them on a table. Beside the fridge was a doorway and a rippling greenish glow. Three steps led down to an enclosed porch that jutted over the channel. This was obviously Quentin's den, if only judged by how it smelled. Three walls had windows, screened and open, that let in the rippling aquarium light. To the left was an ancient dresser and an unmade single bed, the bedsheets slick with body oil and grimy gray like rats. There was also a strong scent of something that Bilal hadn't done since Devon's death.

Respecting Quentin's space, Bilal remained on the second step while scanning the green-lit room. The nearest wall, the back of the house, was covered with posters of Tote Gotes probably snagged off the web... there was an elderly Imac and printer atop an ancient office desk that looked like Mr. Skelly's. The floor was littered with dirty socks, candy bar wrappers and cigarette packs. On a homemade shelf was an old boom-box and stacks of rock CDs. Another shelf held a row of books, and that surprised Bilal... Quentin didn't look like a reader. Among the books were Lord Of The Rings, The Wind In The Willows, Watership Down, Lazy Bear Lane, and The Indian In The Cupboard. Under the bed was a big tool box painted gleaming red. On a packing crate beside the bed was a reading lamp without a shade, a tuna can brimming with cigarette butts, and a new-looking paperback book. It was one of those books like "Macs For Morons," and its title was Islam For Idiots.

In contrast to the boyish mess, the room's right-hand corner looked recently cleaned. Bilal saw a narrow, iron-framed cot, maybe army-surplus and almost neatly made.

"That's your bed, man. Cool?" said Quentin, clumping up behind Bilal. "It's the only one I could find at Whatley's Second-Hand."

"Yeah, it's cool. ...Sorry for snoopin'."

"That's okay, it's your room, too." Then Quentin actually smiled. "Cousin. ...I got a dresser for your clothes, but it don't come apart like the bed. We can use Mr. Whatley's truck but I gotta fix it first."

"Thanks," said Bilal. "Jadd... grandpa... is supposed send my stuff next week. I got a lot of books."

"We can find a shelf at Whatleys. He's got a lot of stuff like that since people been leavin' town."

Bilal went to the cot and took off his pack. "Now...?"

An old-fashioned telephone rang, mounted on the kitchen wall, and Quentin grabbed the handset. :Bridge thirteen. ...Hey. ...I'm cool. ...Sure, but..." He glanced at Bilal. "Wait awhile, okay? Like, till after sundown."

Bilal had climbed the steps again as Quentin hung up the phone. "Jody?" he asked.

"How'd you know?"

"A friend would check on how you were after what happened at Annie's."

"Yeah," said Quentin. "He always hangs with me after school an' usually has dinner. His aunt don't cook worth shit... says food is a sin if it tastes good. Shawn's probably grounded an' can't use the phone."

"So, now...?"

"Wait." Quentin put the milk and meat in the fridge, then ripped two cans of Bud from a sixer and handed one to Bilal.

"Thanks." Bilal popped the tab and took a gulp, suddenly realized he was thirsty and sucked down several more swallows. He burped, and wiped his mouth then said, "But, you're white."

Quentin popped the other can. "That's what everybody thinks. But you probably don't understand."

"I don't," said Bilal. "My uncle was your dad, wasn't he?"

"C'mon, man." Quentin descended the steps to his room and opened a door overlooking the channel. A rickety staircase led down to a dock about the size of Annie's. The dock was almost under the bridge, beside the tower's concrete base, half hidden by reeds and the huge willow trees. The boards were covered with soft green moss, and tied to the dock was an old wooden boat, twelve feet long with an outboard motor and painted faded orange. Its sides were stenciled: HIGHWAY DEPARTMENT, BRIDGE 13.

Quentin led the way down to the dock, the staircase creaking under his weight. "Um, this might be a cool place to pray. Like in private, y'know? East is that way, across the channel."

It was a cool place, thought Bilal, sort of peaceful and secret, like something in a story book where kids could be alone. But he frowned. "I don't pray."

Quentin looked surprised. "I thought you were a Muslim?"

Bilal scowled. "Nobody gives a shit who I am, they only care about who I pray to!" He stepped to Quentin, bumping bellies, and jammed a finger to Quentin's chest. "What the hell is goin' on? If you're my cousin why aren't you black? ...An' where's your brother?"

"Sacramento," said Quentin, standing unmoved against Bilal. "He goes to college... graphic design... but he should be back tomorrow."

"Is he white, too?"

"Mom was white," said Quentin.

"...Oh." Bilal stepped back a pace.

"Wanna sit down?" Without waiting for an answer, Quentin plopped down on the edge of the dock, his boots hanging over the water. Bilal sat down beside him. Quentin took a gulp of beer, and a few seconds later Bilal did, too. Both boys burped. Quentin dug in a pocket and pulled out a half-crushed Marlboro pack. "So, you don't smoke?"

"I felt my lips move when I said I didn't."

"'Cause it's forbidden?"

"It's not forbidden, I just don't."

"But drinkin' is forbidden."

Bilal frowned. "Lots of things are forbidden if you believe they're what God said instead of just advice from people. An' a lot of it's way out of date. Like, pork used to be full of worms so it wasn't safe to eat. ...An' if Christians believed everything in the Bible they'd still kill people for workin' on Sunday. Or burn animals to 'please the Lord.' Or make other people slaves." He thought for a moment. "'Slaves, obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear.' Jesus supposedly said that."

"I was tryin' to respect you," said Quentin. "I mean, what you believed in."

"Yeah, I saw the book," said Bilal. "Maybe I should read it, too, 'cause I feel like an idiot most of the time."

"You mean about God?" asked Quentin. "Like, whether you should pray or not?"

Bilal took another gulp of beer. "Prayin' feels like beggin' for things an' maybe I already begged too much."

"I feel you, man," said Quentin.

"Don't try an' talk black," said Bilal.

"'Cause it's uncool?"

"No, 'cause it sounds retarded, even when black people do it."

"A lot of white kids do it."

"That's even more retarded 'cause they don't have an excuse."

"What about nigger with an H?"

"What about retard with an H?"

"Don't call Jody a retard, okay?"

"I won't unless he calls me one."

"Think I could beat you up?"

"Maybe. Is that important?"

"No." Quentin fired a cigarette with a cheap disposable lighter and blew out a rippling ghost of smoke that drifted up to the bridge. Bilal watched the smoke disappear in the sky, then said, "I know this much. My dad had a brother... your dad. An' he got killed on that bridge. ...Um, sorry about his head."

Quentin looked down at the tree-shadowed water. "Nobody ever found it."

"Sorry," said Bilal again.

"I used to go divin' here, lookin' for it. I wanted to put it in the coffin. Like, that would be the right thing to do."

"...Guess it would," agreed Bilal. "But, you'd have to dig up the grave. Wouldn't you be scared?"

"Why would I be scared of my dad, even if he's a skeleton? I wanted his bones to rest in peace. All together, y'know?" Quentin scowled. "There's a stupid story about his ghost hauntin' the bridge on foggy nights."

"Guess there would be," agreed Bilal, looking up at the skeleton bridge. "So... he married a white lady?"

Quentin blew out another ghost. "She got killed when I was two. Up in Sacramento. Some bangers was shootin' at each other an' she got caught in the middle."

"Sorry, man."

Quentin shrugged. "I never really knew her. Dad got this job on the bridge to get us out of the city. My brother, Darien, was twelve then. People here thought we were adopted."

Bilal scanned Quentin carefully, remembering how, back at Annie's, he'd been searching for something but wasn't sure what. He noted the slightly dusky skin that could have passed for dirty, the small-bridged shape of the short snubby nose... it would have looked wider if Quentin's cheeks hadn't been so chubby. Before he could think it might not be cool, he reached out and pushed back Quentin's hair, revealing eyes that seemed to change color, from brown to green to almost blue depending upon the light; and here were the greens of the water and leaves, the rust and browns of the branches and bridge, and the deepening blue of the evening sky. Bilal smiled. "Yo, cousin."

"Yo," said Quentin, smiling back. "...Anyway, since everybody thought we were white, it made things easier around here."

"But, Annie said everyone liked your dad."

"They did," said Quentin. "After they got to know him. Like, as a person instead of a color. But not at first. Except Mr. Gilman at the store."

"I met him when I got off the bus. He told me a black dude saved his life in World War Two."

Quentin nodded. "Mr. Gilman was hero. Got a bunch of medals. People here still respect things like that. So, when he treated my dad with respect other people did, too."

"But you never told anybody later? That you weren't adopted?"

Quentin drank more beer and burped. "By then we were accepted."

Bilal sipped beer and considered. "Guess I can understand that. It would be like sayin' you're gay... like, comin' out I mean. People would have to accept you again for bein' somethin' different. An' maybe some people wouldn't."

Quentin suddenly scowled. "That's exactly what it would be! ...Or sayin' you're a Muslim."

Bilal smiled. "Which might be harder to accept. That's probably why your name is Tanner instead of Taimur."

"I never thought about it."

"No reason you would," said Bilal. "Do Shawn an' Jody know?"

"Jody always knew I was mixed, ever since we were little. I told Shawn this summer." Quentin touched Bilal's shoulder. "I knew I had a cousin. Dad talked about his family sometimes."

"It's your family, too," said Bilal. "But there's only me an' Jadd now."

"It's still good to know I got family."

Bilal thought for a moment. "You must have told Jody an' Shawn I was comin'... they'd wonder why you bought the bed... but you didn't say I was black."

"How'd you know?"

"'Cause they would have figured I was your cousin seein' me at Annie's. They weren't expecting a black dude. An' you kept it on the under. I could tell you were scopin' me out, but I thought you were checkin' my flex... sorry for soundin' retarded."

Quentin looked uncomfortable. "I didn't know you'd be this black. I thought you might look... I dunno... Arabian or somethin'. Dad was a way lot... lighter than you."

"My mom was dark," said Bilal. "Guess I took after her."

"An' half the school was there," added Quentin. "I needed time to think."

"Are people around here racist?"

"I wouldn't call 'em that. Not after they get to know somebody. ...For sure, there's all the usual jokes..."

"Like blanket-asses for Indians?"

"Yeah. But they ain't really mean."

"Coach Swaggart sounded mean."

"He mostly hates fat kids an' gays... says they're a threat to America. But he ain't from around here. Skelly hired him a year ago 'cause he said he'd make all the kids healthy winners."

Bilal smiled. "I thought it was cool to be a loser."

"Only if you're retarded."

"I never thought you'd look white," said Bilal. "You should have wrote you had a computer, then we could have traded pics."

"I didn't think about that. But I was gonna send you a pic. I wrote another letter."

Bilal tensed a little. "When did you send it?"

"I gave it to Jody to mail yesterday, but he lost it on the way to the post office. He does shit like that when he's smokin'... forgets things an' loses stuff."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "Then it didn't get sent?"

"Naw. Why?"

Bilal shrugged. "It's not important."

Quentin chugged the rest of his beer and threw the can in the water. He saw Bilal's look and smiled. "Salamanders live in them. The tree-huggers built them habitats but they like cans a lot better. There's more of 'em livin' around this bridge than anywhere else in the channel."

"Oh."

"So, you don't believe in holy stuff?"

"I'm not sure anymore," said Bilal. He looked up at the sky through the willow leaves and the bridge's rusty iron bones. "Sometimes I feel like I'm bein' tested. But I ain't gonna blow your cover if that's what you're worried about."

Quentin scowled again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like wearin' a kufi or prayin' at school."

"...Oh."

Bilal drank the rest of his beer and tossed the can in the water. "But, what about me livin' here?" He patted his chest. "Bein' this black."

Quentin shrugged. "You're my cousin, man. That's all anybody needs to know." He sucked a last hit off his cigarette and flipped the butt in the water. "So, what's your story, Bilal? An' I know it's more than it said in the letter. Somebody's after your ass, huh? Gang shit in the 'hood? Like what killed my mom?"

"Yeah," said Bilal. "But it's stupid little monkey-boys playin' stupid monkey games. Kinda like bein' retarded."

The bell of Saint Toads clanked six times, and Quentin glanced up at the evening sky, darkening now to gunmetal dusk, while a movie graveyard kind of mist was beginning to rise from the water. "You can tell me later. I gotta start dinner." He thought for a moment. "'If you remain good and strong of heart, even if the enemy should rush here, your Lord will help you'."

Bilal cocked his head. "You get that from Islam For Idiots?"

"No, the Koran. The one that belonged to my dad."

"There's a lot of you on the under, man."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bilal smiled. "You're not as dumb as you look."

"Well, like I said, I got a gun, even if your Lord don't help you."

Bilal looked up at the sky again. "Maybe nobody's Lord is helpin' no more 'cause too many people believe in guns."

A bike rattled into the weedy front yard as Bilal followed Quentin into the house. A moment later the screen door banged and Jody shuffled into the kitchen, his jeans cuffs dragging over his sneaks, still minus his 'beater and shiny with sweat. His reek of dirty boy and dope, like a stoner kid from the Pet Semetary, filled the room with funkiness. Like a lot of slow kids he'd never learned to suck in his belly and looked like he was following it; and Bilal was almost amazed again how furry and goat-like he was. Jody's narrow yellow eyes, still reddened a little from smoking, widened when he saw Bilal.

"This is my cousin," said Quentin, pulling the string on a bare light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. "Remember I told you he was comin'?"

"Yeah. ...But man, is he ever black!"

"Don't say that!" snapped Quentin.

"Why not?" said Bilal. "I am. Just don't call me a nigga."

"Okay." Jody offered a furry paw. "I'm Jody."

"Bilal," said Bilal, shaking hands with the kid.

"I'm a little retarded."

Quentin yelled, "Don't call yourself that!"

"Why not? I am."

Bilal smiled. "So am I sometimes."

Jody giggled, showing his bottle-opener teeth. "You just said that to be nice. But it's nice." It was hard to tell if he was stoned or really just retarded. "Can I have a beer?" he asked Quentin.

Quentin handed Jody a Bud. The kid popped the can, drank and burped, then wiped what passed for a fuzzy chin. "Can I get a punkin' tomorrow? Make a jack 'o lantern an' put it on your porch?"

"Sure," said Quentin. "But you should put it on your own porch."

"Can't. My aunt says Halloween is Satan's holiday."

"Your aunt's full of shit," muttered Quentin. He twisted a knob on the spider-legged stove and lit the broiler with his lighter.

Jody turned to Bilal. "She calls me Satan's bastard. I was sent from hell to test her faith."

"Sounds like she is full of shit," said Bilal.

Quentin opened the fridge and took out the meat. "Jody, set the table."

"Okay." Jody went to a cupboard. "Mutton chops, cool! I can eat three."

"I know," said Quentin, then turned to Bilal. "Sure you don't want more than one?"

"Guess I'll have two," said Bilal.

Jody pointed to a farm supply calendar tacked to the wall above the sink. "S'posed to do a test today."

"Shit, I forgot," said Quentin. "We'll do it now."

Bilal asked, "A test at school?"

"Naw. Bridge test. Gotta open it once a month to see if it still works. Wanna come with us?"

"Sure."

The mist was growing thicker as Bilal and Jody followed Quentin out to the base of the bridge. Then, Quentin leading, Bilal coming last, the three boys climbed a ladder to the rusty little control house, emerging onto a platform thirty feet above the road. A green glow came from the traffic light below the iron grating. Bilal went to the rail and scanned around. The mist was slowly invading the town like evil fog in a Stephen King movie. Most of the houses and buildings were dark, and many street lamps didn't seem to be working. Those that did were ancient types with dimly burning bulbs. The Ideal Lunch was closed, though Flying Horse Gas and the market were open. Mr. Gilman was out on the porch stacking ugly pumpkins. Distant lights of what might have been farms were being snuffed out by the fog. The spire of Saint Toads loomed out of the mist like a drowning finger pointing to heaven; and farther away up Channel Road was the glow of the Burger Barge sign. A few headlights of cars and trucks wormed their way down narrow roads through a nighted patchwork of fences and fields. A semi-truck loaded with hay bales rumbled through town and beneath Bilal's feet, its tires whining over the bridge. The church bell clanked seven times; and he wondered what Jadd was doing... probably praying, maybe for him.

"Thinkin' of what you left?" asked Quentin, coming to stand beside Bilal.

"How'd you know?"

Jody joined them at the rail. "'Cause when the sun goes down you get a little sad sometimes."

Bilal touched Devon's charm. "Yeah."

Quentin opened the control house door and switched on a light. Old-fashioned windows of little square panes threw a golden glow in the mist. Inside was massive machinery like the rusty, cobwebbed lockdown gears in the remake of House On Haunted Hill. There were mammoth cables, long iron levers, and a Dumpster-sized electric motor. An amber light burned on a spider-webbed panel where two dusty gauges showed VOLTAGE, their needles reading 440. Another pilot light was green. There were huge copper switches like Egor threw when his master was making a monster. There was also a low but powerful hum like a transformer on a telephone pole. In a corner was a little desk and wooden swivel chair. On top of the desk was a big black book like Lovecraft's Necronomicon.

"Can I do it?" asked Jody.

"Sure." Quentin plopped down on the chair.

Grinning like a stoned little kid -- or Egor making a monster -- Jody threw one of the big copper switches. The green light went out and a red one came on. Outside, the traffic light also went red. Though a window overlooking the bridge, Bilal saw another red glow in the mist on the other side of the channel. Jody threw a second switch, almost dancing with goatish glee as warning bells began to clang. Bilal went to the door and looked down: like he'd thought when he'd first seen the bridge, a wooden arm was lowering across the road below. A battered pickup rolling through town, slowed and came to a stop.

Jody grasped one of the long iron levers, which seemed to take all his strength to pull. The low background hum changed to a sudden vibrating whine like a jet plane getting ready for takeoff. Blue sparks flickered inside the huge motor, which shook the floor as it powered up and rattled the tin-sheeted walls. The overhead bulb dimmed to orange. Mammoth gears began to turn, creaking, squealing, breaking nets of spiderwebs. Rust flakes popped from tightening cables. The whole bridge started to tremble and shake. There were agonized groans and metallic screams like robots being tortured in hell, and a ponderous, rhythmic iron clank. Bilal pressed his nose to a window as the bridge's massive center section slowly began to rise.

"All the way?" cried Jody above the shrieks of straining steel.

Quentin opened the big black book and pulled a pencil from the desk. "Yeah."

Jody looked scary, dancing around in the flickering glare from the motor. The scent of ozone filled the air, along with the smell of hot copper and wires. The squealing and groaning, the rumble and clanking, seemed to go on for an hour, though it was probably less than five minutes before Jody shoved back the lever and struggled to pull another. The rumbling racket suddenly stopped except for the clang of the warning bells. The bridge's center section hung forty feet above the channel.

Quentin wrote something in the book. "Okay, man, bring it down."

A car had joined the pickup waiting on the road, and headlights glowed on the opposite shore as another vehicle came to a stop. Jody attacked the levers again, pushing one, pulling another, but the noise and shaking wasn;t as bad as the center section began to come down.

Suddenly there was a massive CLUNK! and everything came to a stop. "Damn!" muttered Quentin. Rising, he grabbed a long iron bar and squirmed around the smoking motor into the motionless gears.

"What's wrong?" asked Bilal.

Quentin levered the bar into something. "Pawl jammed again."

"Paul?" asked Bilal.

"Pawwwl," said Jody. "It's the thing that goes clank."

Quentin looked caught in some gigantic clock as he struggled and strained on the bar. Fingers of mist drifted up around him through a hole where the cables went through.

"Need any help?" asked Bilal.

"Naw, an' stay away."

"Is this how it happened?"

"You mean his dad?" asked Jody.

Muscles buried deep in fat now stood out in Quentin's arms as he threw all his weight on the bar. "Yeah."

Something clanked and Quentin jerked back. The gears released with a grinding screech and started turning again. The massive cables quivered and thrummed like a monster bass guitar. Jody leaned close to Bilal and whispered, "That's what chopped his dad's head off! His ghost comes back to look for it on foggy nights like this!"

"What?" puffed Quentin, worming his way out of the gears as they squealed and rumbled around him.

"Nothin'," said Jody.

The bridge finally closed with another huge CLUNK that might have shaken the town. The overhead light brightened again as the smoking motor creaked to a stop. Jody switched off the warning bells and the wooden arms began to rise. He threw another switch and the traffic lights went green. The vehicles drove across the bridge and disappeared in the mist.

"Can I smoke?" asked Jody, as Quentin, now greasy and streaked with rust, squeezed around the motor.

"Yours or mine?" asked Quentin.

"Yours, I'm out."

"Good." Quentin pulled out his Marlboro pack. "I wish you'd stop smokin' that shit."

Jody shrugged. "It makes me feel good."

"Um," said Bilal as Jody took a cigarette. "Why should you feel bad?"

"'Cause I'm ugly an' retarded."

"...Well, maybe you're just bein' tested."

"Huh?"

Bilal looked around. "Kinda like this bridge."

"...You mean, like, by God? To see if I still work?"

"Somethin' like that."

"Yeah," said Quentin. "Satan wouldn't want you to work."

Bilal smiled. "Not like you should, anyway."

The bell of Saint Toads clanked ten times, muffled by the drifting mist like the ghostly bell of a sunken ship. Quentin, naked except for his rings, plopped his rolly bulk on his bed, shaking the floor like the bridge when it closed. "Guess you had a long day."

Bilal, in just his boxer shorts, sat down on his cot and yawned. "It was kinda long. An' some of it don't seem real no more. Like Frodo startin' out on his quest with the Black Riders after his ass."

"Sounds more like a movie," said Quentin. "Gettin' shot at by gangsters, an' doin' that James Bond trick on the train."

Bilal drew back the covers and got underneath, then crossed his arms under his head on the pillow. "Wish it was a movie, startin' from that day in the park when Devon smiled at the monkeys. Maybe we could of walked out."

"Sorry about your friend, man."

Bilal touched Devon's charm. "Me too."

"Don't worry." Leaning over the mass of his middle, Quentin pulled something from under the bed.

"That's a coach gun?" asked Bilal, eyeing the short, double-barreled shotgun.

"Ten-gauge," said Quentin. "Like they used to blow away bandits back in the cowboy days."

"What you use it for?"

"Mostly shootin' rats at the dump. They spread diseases, y'know. Did you have a gun in the 'hood?"

Bilal thought again of the Tokarev still in his pack under the cot. Jody had left around nine, a little buzzed from three cans of Bud, one with their mutton-chop dinner, two more while watching Nightmare On Elm Street -- there was a Halloween marathon -- and weaving a bit on his chopper as he'd pedaled away in the fog. Bilal and Quentin had finished the beer down on the dock in the swirling mist, which glowed bloody red from a light on the bridge, a warning to boats it was closed. Bilal had told Quentin everything, except about having the gun. After all, he would throw it away. Maybe tomorrow. "Kids in the 'hood don't all have guns. Only most of the monkeys."

"Well," said Quentin. "I don't see how they could find you here, but I got your back if they do."

"Thanks," said Bilal. "But, this retarded shit is for real."

Quentin got up and opened the door. Aiming the shotgun into the night, he cocked a hammer and fired. The heavy gun bucked against his shoulder. The blast could have woken the dead. "So is this."

The telephone rang in the kitchen, and Quentin, toting the smoking gun, went up to answer it. "Bridge thirteen. ...Hey, man. ...Yeah, I figured that. ...I'm okay. My cousin got here." He smiled at Bilal. "Yeah, he's cool. ...Tomorrow? I gotta fix Mr. Whatley's truck, but we can go fishin' later. Meet you at the Barge for lunch? ...Okay, man. ...Yeah, I... yeah, you too."

"Shawn?" asked Bilal, as Quentin padded back to bed.

"His brother blamed him for startin' the fight, so he got grounded in his room."

"So, what's his brother got against you?"

Quentin seemed to hesitate, then shrugged a bulky shoulder. "It's mostly his mom an' dad. They think I made him drop out of sports."

"Did you?"

Quentin scowled. "I didn't make him anything! He just got tired of stupid games an'... maybe pretending to be what he wasn't."

"You mean, like Swaggart's idea of a winner?"

"Swaggart told his parents that bein' fat was like a disease an' Shawn would catch it from me."

"That's retarded," said Bilal. "Like sayin' 'obesity epidemic.' An epidemic is spreading disease, an' bein' fat ain't catchin'."

"People like Swaggart are like a disease 'cause they make other people hate. An' that's a disease that's killed more people than anything else in the world." Quentin slipped a new shell in the shotgun then slid it back under the bed. "You like fishin'?"

"Never did it."

"It's easy, the fish do most of the work." Quentin got under the covers, the bed creaking loudly beneath him, then switched off the lamp on the packing crate. "So, you don't pray, even at night?"

Bilal gazed up at the ceiling in the dim red glow from the bridge warning light filtering though the fog-shrouded windows. "Sometimes in my mind I still do, but I'm not sure who I'm talkin' to. ...Do you?"

"Sometimes in my mind."

Bilal didn't know what awakened him later... maybe the clank of the lonely church bell. The red-tinted mist still clouded the windows, droplets running like blood down the glass, and the night was totally silent. He could hear Quentin's breathing slow and deep. The smell of Quentin ruled the room, and yet he scented Devon. But he'd taken the laptop out of his pack to show Devon's pictures to Quentin and lain Devon's jacket across the cot. Yet the scent also seemed to be on his pillow like all those nights when Devon slept-over. Then, not knowing why, he slipped from the covers and opened the door.

The boat gently nuzzled the dock below as the ghost of a breeze sighed through the willows and softly rustled the leaves. Something, maybe a turtle or frog, made a small splash at the base of the bridge. Bilal gazed up the tower, its top receding into the mist like a huge rusty ladder to heaven. The warning lamp shone like a single red eye, and there was a fainter greenish glow from the traffic light over the road. Quietly closing the door behind him, Bilal descended the steps. The moss on the dock was soft underfoot and gave off a faint spicy scent. He studied the boat for a moment -- he'd never been in a boat before -- then eased himself in and sat on a seat.

"We was gonna go fishin' someday, remember?"

Bilal stared up at the bridge. A figure sat on the concrete base ten feet above the dock... a chubby shirtless boy in jeans, his sneakers dangling over the water. He looked like he had on that hot afternoon before the monkeys had killed him. "'Course I remember, man," said Bilal. "...Yo, I'm dreamin', right? An' maybe walkin' in my sleep, like from all the stress today?"

Devon smiled. "If you're a dreamer dreamin' a dream don't axe your dream to explain it."

"So, maybe I'm talkin' to myself."

"I know you believe you understand what you think you said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard ain't what you meant."

"Now I know I'm talkin' to you." Bilal moved to get out of the boat, to cross the dock and be closer to Devon.

"Carefully, man, or you'll fall in an' we know that wouldn't be good."

Bilal almost did, one foot on the dock and one in the boat, but managed to make it out. He gazed at Devon above him. "Did you make it, man? To... somewhere good?"

Devon laughed. "I'm one of your seventy-two virgins."

"What?"

"The Koran don't say they'll all be girls."

"That's stupid joke, man!"

"Your grandfather thought it was funny. Like, God has a sense of humor, an' it's no sin to laugh with Him. A lot of the Faithful forget that."

"So do a lot of Christians. ...Um, is Jadd okay?"

"Yo, Bilal, I'm not a Jinn, so don't rub your lamp an' axe me for wishes." Devon smiled again. "But it's cool to rub somethin' else if you want. Might help with some of the stress."

"...I... just ain't felt like it," said Bilal.

"Denying yourself good things on earth don't score no points with God. He wouldn't have given good things to you if He didn't want you to enjoy 'em. It's kinda like laughin' with Him."

"Yeah?" said Bilal. "You gettin' killed was pretty damn funny. Did you an' Allah laugh about it?"

"On whose name be praise," said Devon. "But, some things you gotta find out for yourself. Allah creates you weak; after weakness He gives you strength... but only if you earn it."

"I didn't know you read the Koran."

"It was always by your bed."

"You died at thirteen," said Bilal. "I think I'd be pissed about that."

Devon only shrugged. "It's not about how long you live but what you do with life. Pain hurts because it's bad, not because it's good for you. Same with bein' hungry, an' the same with bein' sad. Nobody gets out of life alive no matter how long they stretch it, an' souls ain't judged by BMI or how much you've denied yourself... including bein' happy."

"Dammit, Devon, I wanna be happy, but it's like the world won't let me!"

Devon shaded his eyes with a hand like an Indian boy scanning the mist. "It's a great big world an' you ain't seen jack. ...'Scuse me for soundin' retarded. The view's a lot better up here. If you wanna live where monkeys shit don't bitch about the stink."

"So, what's it smell like from up there?"

Devon sniffed the air. "There's trees an' grass an' livin' things. There's water an' moss an' leaves. All the things that Allah created." He laughed. "I could even get used to Jody."

Bilal frowned a little. "Assuming this ain't a dream, why did you wait so long to come back? An' why did you follow me here?"

Devon laughed. "'Assuming?' Ain't that sounding white?"

"Or just not sounding retarded."

"I thought you wanted me to follow you?"

"I did, but you could have come back a long time ago."

"Too many ghosts in the 'hood," said Devon.

"Don't tell me you're scared of ghosts!"

"I guess they're lost souls," said Devon. "They never believed in nothin' in life so they don't know what to do now. Like crazy people who wander the streets all alone inside themselves."

"Can't they go to the light or somethin'?"

"They never believed there was a light or anything to go to. The light's always there, but they can't see it."

The lonely church bell rang five times. Bilal opened his eyes to the dim red light. Mist still shrouded the windows, and Devon's jacket was pressed to his cheek. Had it only been a dream? ...But there were bits of moss on his feet. So, maybe he'd walked in his sleep? Then he heard a soft creaking of bed springs in a slow and familiar rhythm. He wondered who Quentin was thinking about.

Bilal stood under the rushing shower in an ancient claw-footed tub. Steam engulfed the little room like warm white fog in a new universe where nothing had been created yet. Bilal was lost in his own creation; and maybe because it had been so long the Big Bang left him breathless. Panting, he slumped against the wall and let the water pour over his body. Then a shadow materialized outside the plastic curtain. The curtain flew back and there was a knife!

"Eee, eee, eee!"

Bilal leaped away and slipped, plopping down on his butt in the tub. "Damn, man!" he yelled as Jody burst into laughter. "The hell you do that for?"

Jody grinned like an evil goat boy. He only wore jeans and sneaks again as if he'd slept in them. "Quentin said you liked scary movies."

"That was too damn scary!"

Jody's yellow eyes went sly. "I know what you was doin'."

Bilal got up and shut off the shower. "Yeah? Don't you?"

"I know ten different ways!"

"...Cool," said Bilal, who only knew seven.

"You ever do it with somebody else?"

"That's a pretty personal question, man."

Jody giggled. "That means you did."

"It means it's none of your business."

"That really means you did."

"Yeah? Did you?"

"That's a pretty personal question, man."

"You sure you're really retarded?"

"Thanks, but just a little. Breakfast is almost ready, then we gonna fix Mr. Whatley's truck so we can get your stuff."

"Aight," said Bilal.

"You're really black all over!"

"Yeah, I noticed."

On the kitchen table was a platter of hash-browns, crispy gold and fried just right. There was also a platter of sausage links, a stack of buttered toast, and glasses of milk and orange juice. Quentin, in only boots and jeans, was tending a frying pan on the stove as Bilal, now clad in boxer shorts, followed Jody into the room. Outside the mist was thinning, and sunlight shone through the window. Distantly a rooster crowed, sounding just like on TV, and the bell of Saint Toads clanked eight times.

"How you like your eggs?" asked Quentin.

Bilal took a chair. "Over medium."

"Comin' up, cousin. Two or three?"

"Three," said Bilal, grabbing a fork and stabbing links to load up a plate.

"Me too!" piped Jody, piling his plate with potatoes.

"Your brother comin' today?" asked Bilal, as Quentin served the eggs.

"Naw, he called a while ago. He's got a girlfriend at college, said they're gonna study."

Jody giggled. "I'm sure."

Quentin sat down and heaped his plate. "I told him you got here okay an' everything was cool."

"How come these eggs are orange?" asked Bilal.

"'Cause the chickens eat greens," said Jody. "On the Indian reservation. They run around all over the place instead of bein' in cages. That's how eggs are supposed to look, not them wussy yellow things my aunt gets down at Walmart. An' the milk is real, too, not that milk-flavored water shit they make you drink at school."

"So the Indians got organic farms?"

"Naw," said Jody, his mouth full of sausage. "It's just the way they always grew stuff. Annie gets her meat from them, that's why her burgers kick-ass."

Bilal ruffled the kid's oily hair and tried to ignore his sweaty smell: Jody might have known ten different ways but none of them seemed to be in a shower. "You're not really retarded."

"Thanks, but just a little."

Quentin muttered, "Except when he's smokin', then he's a lot."

"Sorry I lost that letter." Jody turned to Bilal. "It was for you."

"That's cool, man," said Bilal. "I wouldn't have gotten it anyway." He salt-and-peppered his eggs, which were perfectly done with no runny spots.

Jody snagged a slice of toast and slathered it with blueberry jelly. "We gonna shoot some rats?"

Quentin forked potatoes. "Maybe after we fix the truck."

"Rats spread disease," said Jody, turning to Bilal.

"So do monkeys," said Bilal.

A half hour later the sun was bright in a clear blue sky and the channel was glistening green. The morning air was growing hot as Bilal, clinging tightly to Quentin again, rode the chugging Gote. Jody pedaled behind on his bike as they clattered through the town. All the boys were shirtless, and Quentin had his shotgun tied across the handlebars.

Mr. Gilman was sweeping his porch beside the stack of psychotic pumpkins. He paused to smile and wave, and all the boys waved back. A handful of pickups were at the cafe, and men in blue denim were eating inside at tables with red-and-white cloths. A few other vehicles sat here and there in front of the few remaining stores that didn't have boards on their windows; and a woman was raising the American flag at the tiny, jail-like post office. Mr. Gilman stopped sweeping again to stand at respectful attention.

"So, you don't know where your grandfather is?" asked Quentin above the engine's beat.

"Not till he writes," said Bilal, pressing close to Quentin's ear. "But I guess he rented another house."

"He could buy a house here for next to nothin'. There's some good ones along the channel, even got docks for boats. Ain't that one of the American dreams? Like, why he came here from Sudan?"

"He came here to get away from terror." As Bilal had noticed last night on the bridge, there were more empty houses than people in town. Many had boarded windows, and rotting picket fences around their weedy yards. He pictured his grandfather planting flowers and resurrecting a dead yellow lawn; maybe even a garden in back. He could sit on the porch in the evenings without the scream of sirens or monkeys shooting guns. And Bilal could... maybe get a boat. And a minibike. "But, Jadd ain't on the under about bein' who he is."

"Yeah," said Quentin. "That might be hard for people to accept."

Bilal looked over his shoulder and saw a battered sheriff's car, a dusty green Ford about twenty years old trailing Jody's BMX. The car had an ancient rotating light like a gumball machine on its roof, but it wasn't flashing; and the cop at the wheel only honked the horn instead of blasting a siren. Bilal didn't know much about vehicle laws, but the Gote was probably breaking them all... even without the shotgun. "Quentin! There's a cop behind us!"

Quentin brought the bike to a stop in front of a boarded-up store. The cop was a beer-bellied fortyish man in a tan uniform that looked second-hand with a faded American flag on his shoulder, though the star on his chest was proudly polished. A cowboy six-shooter rode on his hip, and he wore a Clint Eastwood hat. His steel-gray eyes skimmed over Bilal but looked more curious than suspicious. "Mornin' Quentin. Gonna get rid of a few more rats? I'm uppin' the bounty to a quarter apiece."

"Mornin', Deputy Best," said Quentin. "Maybe later. Gonna fix Mr. Whatley's truck... probably needs a coil. Gotta haul a dresser an' bookshelf."

"Don't let me see you drivin' it. Whatley ain't licensed that thing in years."

"I'll take the old stage road."

"Then I probably won't see you."

"...Oh, this is my cousin Bilal," added Quentin. "He's gonna be stayin' with me awhile."

"That so?" said the man regarding Bilal. "Cousin on your father's side? Guess he'd be your step-cousin."

Quentin shrugged. "Never thought about it."

"Don't know how that works myself when people been adopted." The man extended a hand. "Dalton Best."

Resisting an urge to say "Howdy, Sheriff," Bilal shook hands with the man. "Bilal Taimur."

"Nice to meet you, Bilal. You be goin' to school?"

"Yes, sir. I registered yesterday."

"I knew your uncle, a real good man. Too bad about that bridge accident."

"Thanks," said Bilal.

"There's five generations of Bests in the graveyard an' I'm glad he's restin' with them."

"'Cept for his head," piped Jody.

"Shut up!" snapped Quentin.

The deputy turned to Jody. "How's your aunt these days?"

"Full of shit."

Best patted Jody's shoulder, not seeming to notice his smell. "Just hang in there, son. If there's a reason for all we go through we'll find it out someday. ...Well, Quentin, you stay out of trouble. ...An' no more fights at Annie's." He smiled when Quentin looked surprised. "Annie would never rat you out, but word's got a habit of gettin' around an' most of it finds me sooner or later."

"...Oh," said Quentin.

"Speakin' of Annie, got me a ten-pound cat in the reeds just north of her dock by the ol' hangin' tree."

"Cool," said Quentin. "We're goin' fishin' later."

"Good luck, Quentin. Bilal. Jody." The deputy started back to his car, but paused and faced the boys again. "Any you seen an ol' Firebird? A '75 an' barbecue black? Driver's a red-haired kid dealin' drugs."

Bilal hesitated: hadn't he done the right thing enough? But finally he said, "I did, yesterday. On Channel Road."

"Thanks, Bilal. Got word he's been sellin' to kids around schools, burger joints an' quickie-marts. An' Walmart down in Saunders Ferry."

Quentin was scanning Bilal, though his eyes, as always, were hidden. At last he said, "I seen him last week. In his car at Annie's after school let out."

"Um," Jody added. "I seen him there, too."

"Thanks," said Best. "Men protect their community, like gettin' rid of rats."

"Um?" asked Bilal, climbing carefully into the boat and feeling a little like Sam the Hobbit as Quentin primed the motor by pumping a rubber hose. "You got life-jackets?"

"Under the seat in the bow," said Quentin. "The bow is the front, the stern is the back. But just hang on to me if we sink."

Jody laughed on the moss-covered dock, holding a trio of fishing poles. "Yeah! He floats like a raft!"

"Can't you swim?" asked Quentin.

Bilal sat down on the center seat, gripping it tight as Quentin's bulk rocked the little boat. "Never got a chance to learn."

"I can teach ya!" said Jody, hopping lightly aboard. "Even a retard can swim!"

"Don't call yourself names!" growled Quentin. "There's plenty of retards who'll do that for you!" He pulled the starter handle and the motor sputtered to life. Jody untied a rope from a post, and Quentin twisted the throttle. The shabby orange boat swung away from the dock and churned away under the bridge. Quentin twisted the throttle again. The boat reared back like an eager horse and sped away down the channel.

Bilal hung onto the seat as the boat whooshed over the water. But after awhile he relaxed a bit and watched the reedy banks pass by as Quentin puffed a cigarette and Jody baited rusty hooks with salamander slices. The sun felt good on his midnight skin, and silver spray tingled his chest. He fingered the charm as it swung on its chain and wished that Devon was here. Did Allah have boats in Paradise? Did kids have fun up there? You wouldn't need any life-jackets, or safety belts in rusty old trucks, or helmets to ride a minibike.

Bilal had forgotten his fear, enjoying the splash and bounce of the boat, watching the wake as it swept through the reeds upsetting sleepy turtles on logs, by the time they were nearing Annie's dock. Shawn, in only cutoff jeans and looking like a young elf prince with all his muscles and long golden hair, was waiting with a fishing pole. His bright blue eyes were curious as Quentin guided the boat to the dock and Jody threw the rope.

"That's your cousin?" asked Shawn, after tying the rope to a post.

"Yeah," said Quentin. "His name's Bilal." He shut off the murmuring motor as the church bell gave a single clank.

Shawn held out a hand. "So, that was you yesterday? I didn't figure you'd be this black. ...Um, yo, dog."

Jody giggled. "Don't try an' talk black, you sound retarded."

Shawn shook hands with Bilal. "Need any help gettin' out?"

"Maybe a little. Never been in a boat before."

"Seriously?" asked Shawn, helping Bilal onto the dock.

"Totally," said Bilal.

Shawn offered a hand to Quentin who didn't seem to need it but took it anyway. "I ordered the grub when I saw you comin'."

Jody clambered out of the boat. "Tugboat Triples an' blueberry sundaes?"

"Or duh."

"How's things at home?" asked Quentin as Shawn tugged up his slipping jeans like an automatic thing.

"Same old shit. They want me back in sports an' I told 'em to piss up a rope. Like, what are sports about anyhow? If you lose you get yelled at by a goon. If you win, the goon gets a trophy!"

"Um?" asked Bilal. "How's your brother?"

Shawn laughed. "His balls still hurt but he deserved it. I should of done that a long time ago. An' I will if he hassles you!"

Annie's voice boomed through the quiet air. "Tugboat Triple Specials!"

The bell of Saint Toads had clanked three times when Bilal felt a tug on his fishing pole. The boat was tied to the branch of an oak, a massive old tree that spread over the water and cooled the air with its shade. Quentin, Shawn and Jody had already caught a lot of fish, but none of the dudes had ragged Bilal for coming up with jack. Bilal was still comfortably stuffed from lunch, and the time had passed in quiet peace with only the drowsy rustle of reeds and the lapping of water along the boat, except when someone got a bite. Jody was on the bow seat, pole in hands but maybe asleep, his almost chinless chin on chest. Shawn and Quentin sat back-to-back on the wide rear seat by the motor, their feet spread over the water. Quentin had taken off his boots and looked a lot less bad. It was hard to tell with all his hair, but his chubby face seemed gentle whenever he looked at Shawn; and both had lost the tough-ass fronts they'd worn at Annie's yesterday.

"Wish you was here, man," whispered Bilal, thinking of Devon again, then... "Shit, I got a fish!"

"Yay!" hollered Jody, snapping awake. "Hey it's a big one, too!"

"Seriously!" yelled Shawn.

Quentin grabbed a net. "'Bout time, virgin!"

"What should I do?" yelped Bilal, as the pole whipped back and forth in his hands and the reel unwound with a squealing whine.

"Reel him in!" yelled Shawn. "Duh!"

"Not too fast!" warned Jody as Bilal began to crank the reel. "Or you'll bust the line!"

The line sliced hissing through the water, the pole bending into an upside-down U. Quentin shouted, "Get the tip up! Don't let him dive, he'll go under them roots!"

Bilal was suddenly pouring sweat, fighting the fish, cranking the reel. "One of you wanna take over?"

"No way," said Shawn. "He's yours."

A monster catfish broke the surface, black as polished ebony, its underbelly white as snow. Jody capered like a kid. "He's a goddamn whopper!"

Quentin leaned out with the net while Shawn and Jody balanced the boat by jumping to the other side. "Got him!"

"Cool!" puffed Bilal, shaking sweat from his eyes.

Jody laughed. "That's gonna be your dinner!"

"All of it? It's huge!"

"You catch it, you eat it," said Shawn. "It's one of the rules."

"Fried in cornmeal," added Quentin. "An' served on a bed of buttered rice. I'll make home-fries, too." He held out a burlap sack, and Bilal dropped the fish inside.

"How many we got?" asked Shawn.

Quentin peered into the sack. "Enough for a couple of dinners."

"Let's go swimmin'," said Jody. "We gotta teach Bilal."

Shawn gave Bilal an amazed look. "You can't swim?"

Quentin dipped the sack in the channel to wet it again and keep the fish cool. "He never got a chance to learn."

Shawn shook his head. "Livin' in a city must suck."

"Seriously," agreed Bilal.

"Let's go to McElligot's Pool," said Jody.

"Um," said Bilal. "But... I don't got no swimmin' trunks."

Jody laughed. "Nobody does at McElligot's Pool!"

"It's one of the rules," said Shawn.

Quentin pulled the starter as Jody untied the boat from the tree. Watching the kid unwinding the rope reminded Bilal of something.

"Um?" he asked. "This used to be a hangin' tree? Like for bandits an' outlaws?"

"Mostly Indians," said Shawn, settling next to Quentin again. "There used to be a bounty on 'em. Twenty dollars a head. 'Course, that was just the men, an' older boys like us."

"Why?"

"'Cause they were in the way. First when the gold miners came, then when people started farmin'."

"Did they scalp anybody?"

"They wasn't that kind of tribe," said Shawn. "Mostly hunted rabbits an' deer, an' fished in the rivers an' creeks. But some of 'em used to steal cows after the white people came. My great-great grandfather shot one for stealin' some corn in the winter... 'course I ain't proud of that."

"What about the women an' kids?"

"Without the men they starved."

Bilal looked up at the huge oak tree which must have stood there for hundreds of years. Maybe Indian kids had climbed in its branches, or fished underneath in its shade? It was a beautiful thing, but people had used it to kill other people. And people made other people suffer. Hadn't they read their Bible... or just the parts they wanted to read?

Quentin said, "But now they got a reservation."

"An' most of 'em are fat," said Jody. "So they ain't starvin' no more."

"An' they're gonna build a casino," said Shawn. "Which might even save the town."

"But the tree is haunted!" said Jody. "So don't never come here at night!"