"Your back!" yelled Bilal, spotting the gun as a Chrysler Cruiser bad in black skidded around the corner. Twenty-two inch rubber screamed. The driver almost lost it but then recovered sloppily and smoked the car 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 car. He spun around but didn't drop... why would anyone target him? Bilal, halfway to the sidewalk, tried a desperate tackle. The AK roared full-auto, spewing yellow fire and smoke that almost hid the monkey face. Bullets hissed above Bilal as he slammed to dirty concrete. Instinct screamed to hide his head, like skin and bone could save him, but he made a grab for Devon's legs. He felt the bullets ripping Devon, the impacts slamming Devon back. 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 spray of glass... Devon's I-pod blown apart. Devon followed a second later, crashing half atop Bilal who sprawled with chest to pavement. Both were shirtless after school, and Devon's blood was 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 each night! He heard the same echoes of screaming tires, the chattering stutter of full-auto fire, but it was his window exploding! Crystal razors sprayed the room, slashing his half-naked body. Bullets tore into the walls, ripping holes in the movie posters, breaking the backs of the books on the shelves, puffs of paper flying. The clock on his night stand tumbled away trailing its cord like a tail, then his lamp, blown apart. Chunks of plaster spewed on the bed as Bilal flung himself to the floor. Would the clip run out again before the bullets found him? Would a cop appear again before the monkey could reload?

The gun cut off, but another spat fire as if they were running a relay. Glass in the living room shattered.

"Grandpa! Jadd!" Bilal scrambled onto his hands and knees and scuttled doglike into the hall. "Jadd!" he yelled again.

The chattering rattle suddenly stopped. An engine revved and tires burned. The 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. Then, the soundtrack faded back in... a few dogs barking along the block, a siren in the distance. Bilal's grandfather lay on his mat, facing the rosy glow of dawn that turned broken glass into spatters of blood across the hardwood floor.

"Jadd!" Bilal leaped up and ran to the man, mindless of the glass minefield.

"Be at peace," his grandfather said.

Bilal found he was gasping 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 breathed 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 in kinder shades of soft pastels, turning rust to mellow gold and faded grays to silver. The siren was approaching, though many blocks away. He looked around at the wreckage inside; bullet-torn pictures on bullet-pocked walls. A chair and the sofa were bleeding cotton. The TV stared like a jagged skull eye at a shattered vase in a pool of flowers. The lamp he'd once thought had belonged to Aladdin lay shot through its polished heart of brass. "Are you all right?" he asked again.

Jadd Taimur sat up slowly, bits of glass making musical sounds as they scattered the floor around him. "Other than having my prayer interrupted." His coffee-brown eyes ran over Bilal. "Are you all right?"

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 death that had ripped into 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 grace."

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

A second siren had joined the first. 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. The weathered faces of other old houses gazed with blind and curtained eyes. Maybe a window shade moved here and there, but nobody wanted to witness. Or be suspected of witnessing. He tried to still his panting breaths and listen for other sounds, a car approaching stealthily, but the dogs only barked and the sirens cried. "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!"

"You did what any good man would do."

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

Outside, a cruiser squeaked to a stop, the red and blue of its flashing strobes weak against the growing day. Its siren cut off, leaving still-barking dogs and the second siren coming fast. Heavy boots trampled the porch. Then a fist pounded the door... which was stupid because it was half blown apart. "Oakland police!"

Bilal called, "Don't break it down. ...What's left, anyhow." He stopped in the kitchen doorway, scanning the glittering razors of glass across the polished floor. His grandfather said, "Take my sandals."

Bilal almost replied, maybe Allah will protect me, but only murmured, "I'm okay," and went carelessly to open the door.

The cops were a typical West Oakland team, one almost as black as Bilal, getting fat and maybe thirty, the other blue-eyed and muscular, 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. "This looks like Iraq!"

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

"I meant the mess," said the cop. "Not the... middle-eastern stuff."

"Sudan is in Africa," said Bilal.

"...Oh."

"You cool, little bro?" asked the black.

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

"Thank the lord," said the black. He'd had this watch for two weeks now ever since the trial. 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 Bud. He'd had more balls than all the monkeys, dropping and drilling their car a few times, his only cover a fire plug. A real man would have reloaded, fed his AK another clip, killed the cop then finished Bilal, but the monkey-boys had squealed away. Too bad the cop hadn't seen their faces. Bilal often brought him coffee, the strong, thick brew his grandfather made, and once as a joke, a box of donuts while he sat outside in his car. His name was Akeem but he was a Baptist. He wasn't fanatic or boring 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. "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!" snarled Bilal, looking around at the wreckage again. "Stupid monkey-boys with guns!"

A piece 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, manned by two white EMTs. Akeem's quick eyes ran over Bilal, naked except for white boxer shorts, 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," said Bilal.

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

Bilal's face hardened. "We didn't call it, an' we're not gonna pay for it!"

The EMTs were on the porch, peering in past the splintered door, their medical boxes in hand. Akeem faced them. "Nobody’s hurt. Bill the department."

"You don't have the authority..." one of the EMTs began.

"Just hit 'em with the paperwork an' let 'em fight it out."

The EMTs traded glances, then shrugged and went back to their idling truck. Akeem spoke into his radio mike, advising someone about something. Bilal's grandfather reappeared with two small porcelain cups. The rich scent of coffee seemed to banish the reek 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. His name is Taimur."

"Oh," said Mark.

Jadd Taimur bowed. "Welcome to my home."

What's left, anyhow, thought Bilal.

Akeem sipped again then glanced outside: a few of the braver neighbors were gathering on the cracked sidewalk beyond the house's little lawn and narrow strip of flowers. Bilal mowed the lawn on Saturday mornings, pushing an ancient clattering thing that burned his sweat instead of gas. He picked the trash from the flowerbed almost every day. There was an elderly, bathrobed woman, Mrs. Turner, a few houses down, who sold delicious homemade pies. Hers was the only name he knew, though he'd often seen the other faces. A man had a pit-bull on a chain: Bilal watched it piss on the flowers. There was a handful of kids with packs, several pointing at bullet-holes and probably guessing the type of gun by the scatter of brass in the street.

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

"Hey!" Mark ran out and the kids ran away, laughing over their shoulders. "Stop!" The kids automatically scattered, becoming multiple targets. Mark could have caught the fat one, but he only looked back at Akeem, who sighed.

"Get the tape," said 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." He added a smile. "Get a day off from school."

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

Akeem only shrugged. "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 walked away leaving bloody footprints. "Be careful, son."

"Why?" said Bilal.

Bilal's grandfather lived simply and clean, just as he'd lived in Sudan. Bilal's room, compared to the house, was a junk shop after an earthquake, though now it looked more like a war zone. His room had taken most of the fire, but it was him the monkey-boys wanted. Of course they had tried for his grandfather, too; they wouldn't want another witness. His window glass was totally gone, and the walls were nothing but paper to lead. Wooden lathing showed like bones where chunks of plaster were blasted 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 trash in the wind. His Dollar Store pack of Milky Way bars, "reading fuel" he kept by his bed, were blown in chunks all over the place 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 warm chocolate brown. In hand was a Coke and a pizza slice, on his face was his usual smile. Bilal remembered the D.A.'s questions, the hard wooden chair that stank of fright-sweat...

"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 now looked dressed for Sunday-school in geeky-looking suits and ties. They were lean and mean, a coach's dream, strong healthy bodies and weak monkey minds. He had made himself smile. "If you smile at a monkey it pisses him off. He thinks you're makin' fun of him. Or you ain't afraid of him."

The defense attorney had objected.

Bilal smiled back at Devon's picture. Anyone would... except a monkey. Devon had been his first friend in this 'hood, and Devon had been his tightest friend through fifth, sixth and seventh grades. 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 getting an F. Devon's grades had only been average, but all the dudes he'd helped with homework -- including Bilal -- usually aced their tests. Devon never fought anyone, but nobody tested or bullied him. Not like Bilal had been bullied at first. Devon didn't smoke weed or do any drugs; his only sin had been smiling back at scowling monkey-boys.

He should have known better... he had known better! Even Bilal from the middle-class 'burbs had learned in a week to lower 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 slipping over their skin 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 his closet door mirror. The glass showed a midnight boy of thirteen, his body defined by tight young muscles, his biceps hard and baseball-shaped, his chest a pair of pert little bricks. The ghost of a six-pack haunted his stomach, but only dimly through burgers and fries. His face was gently rounded, with a wide snubby nose and full pouty lips. His hair was bushy and mostly untamed above ebony eyes looking large for his face, though narrowed now in monkey-like hate.

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 glass. He tore off the bedding and flung it away -- he should have washed it weeks ago -- then sat down to check his foot. The gash wasn't deep, though still oozing blood. His other wounds were baby-ass. On a shelf was a bottle of alcohol for cleaning his DVDs, and somehow it hadn't been shot. 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.

"Yeah?"

"Best hurry up, the suits are comin'. They'll ask you all the same questions they gonna ask at the station. No point in answerin' everything twice."

Bilal scowled. "They'll axe 'em a million times anyway!" He grabbed his jeans, shook off the glass, and pulled them up to casual sag. He got fresh socks from his splintered dresser, wiggled them on and tied his sneaks. 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. Probably wouldn't leave anyone. 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 glanced at his pack; homework wasn't important when monkeys 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 and taking his favorite toys. A lot of his life was in the computer. He could always read books on the web, finish the H. P. Lovecraft story -- the book had been blasted apart -- watch a movie, steal a song. His eye fell on the night stand. His Koran lay there as always, though he hadn't read it in almost a year. Each night he stuck it in the drawer, 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. Bilal had read it defiantly. His grandfather hadn't said anything, and the Koran was simply there each day beside the other book.

Bilal couldn't see much difference. Both books said to love everyone, then turned around and told you to hate. Both pleaded for peace then cried for war... as long as God was on your side. Both promised rewards if you were good, but only after you were dead. No matter what God's name really was, Bilal didn't think He had written those books, and probably didn't like everything in them. Bilal put the books in the drawer; who in this 'hood would steal them?

He slipped into a white T-shirt, then snagged a brown leather jacket. The jacket had 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, and hogging the blanket unknowingly. 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 and living terror haunted the 'hood. Devon's mom had bought him a new winter coat, not knowing he wouldn't live to wear it. 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.

"Did you hear that Buckwheat became a Muslim? ...Changed his name to Kareem Of Wheat."

Both cops laughed, a black and a white, down the hall by the candy machines. Bilal shot a glare at their bulletproof backs, wishing his eyes could drill armor. He glanced at Jadd Taimur beside him, dressed in kufi and African robe. Maybe the cops hadn't seen him and were only sharing a stupid 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. The place was a kind of indifferent clean, cleaned by people paid to clean, but the walls were slimed with fear and lies like evil ectoplasm. The overhead lights were painfully bright, and the bench seemed to hate being sat on. His grandfather's plastic VISITOR pass was neatly clipped to his robe, while Bilal's was clipped to the tail of shirt, which hung down over his knees. They had taken his grandfather's staff again as if he might do terrorist things.

Akeem had heard the other cops' 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 as he scented melted cheese and meat. "My grandfather doesn't eat pork."

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

Jadd Taimur smiled. "Thank you. I'm sure my grandson will finish both."

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

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

"Thank you but I am fine."

"I gotta go," said Akeem. "I'll try to check on your house." He glanced at a door beside the bench where a small plastic sign said DETECTIVE THORNE. HOMICIDE "Hope they don't keep you waitin' too long."

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

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

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

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

A shadow of anger crossed Akeem's face. "We really ain't done jack."

Bilal shrugged. "You probably did all they'd let you do. ...Thanks."

"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, her eyes streaming tears. She looked like one of the monkeys boys' mothers who'd cried in the court when her son was sentenced, but no, Bilal saw, she wasn't. Maybe her son had been monkey-boy prey? Like Devon. Detective Thorne thrust his head out the doorway. He looked like a middle-school football coach whose teams never won any games. "Come in," he said, sounding tired.

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 his shoulder to lean on. The office never seemed to change, tiny and cluttered with papers and folders, smelling of fear-sweat and slimy with lies. The dented wastebasket still overflowed with junkfood wrappers and crushed paper cups. The computer screen still needed cleaning. One tube in the light flickered slightly, just enough to annoy. Detective Thorne dropped behind his desk, grabbing a half-empty coffee cup as Bilal eased his grandfather into an chair, probably the one the woman had cried on. He sat on another beside it, then took 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.

"I don't suppose you saw their faces?"

"No," said Bilal.

Thorne gave Bilal a cop look. "If you had would you admit it?"

"I don't know anymore."

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

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

Bilal swallowed the last bite of sandwich. "Duh," he muttered.

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

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 good, decent people. But... I dunno, call it the system... isn't set up to protect good people."

"Not like us, anyway," said Bilal.

Detective Thorne frowned. "There isn't any 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. "I know what you sayin'. Some stupid black monkeys killed a black kid an' nobody really gives a shit."

Detective Thorne looked angry again, like the coach when Devon had laughed at him for calling him fat and lazy. But then he shrugged. "I could put it in nicer words but that's what it basically 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."

"Is that all we are?" demanded Bilal. "Nothin' but victims?"

Thorne's telephone rang and he grabbed it. "Yeah? ...Give me another three minutes." He turned to Jadd Taimur. "If I were you I'd move. Fast. I can give you another week of protection. That should be enough time to make your arrangements. Victims Assistance might help you relocate. I'll give you their card. They also have a website, but..."

"I got a computer," said Bilal.

"They're only small local gang," Detective Thorne went on, still facing Jadd Taimur. "The big families use them for dealing crack 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 though some pages inside. "Not one of those punks finished school. ...Does Bilal have any relatives, hopefully in another town?"

Bilal shook his head. "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."

"I know," sighed Thorne. "But it would be safer if he resettled alone. Less conspicuous than both of you moving somewhere together. Then, after maybe six months..."

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

"Don't fight me, kid!" Detective Thorne roared. "I don't have to do a goddamn thing! You said it yourself; some black punks killed a black kid and now they want to kill you. And nobody...!" He stopped and took a deep breath. "Not enough people give a damn."

Jadd Taimur said, "Bilal has a cousin..."

"What?" cried Bilal.

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

"...That means I got an uncle."

"No," said Jadd Taimur. "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."

Detective Thorne cocked his head. "Where?"

"They live near Sacramento. In what I believe is called the Delta. At least, that is where I last heard of them."

"That should be far enough," said Thorne. "Mostly farm country up there. A few of... your people... not muzzlem, of course, 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 Taimur.

"So?" asked Detective Thorne, glancing at his watch. "You think he could go up and live with his cousins while you get resettled?"

"I will write to them," said Jadd Taimur. "Or perhaps my grandson can reach them by e-mail."

The telephone beeped and Thorne snatched it up. "...Okay." He tossed the two folders aside, snagged another from a pile, then glanced Jadd Taimur. "I hope you get a quick answer."

"They're out there," said Bilal, scanning the almost empty street as dawn light tinted the neighborhood with kinder shades of rose and gold.

"You see anything last night?" asked Mark, his hand on the butt of his gun.

"I can feel 'em," muttered Bilal. "Stupid monkey hate like waves. It almost stinks in the air."

Akeem was also scoping the street as they stood on the little front porch. The cruiser waited 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.

"Yeah," said Mark. "We pulled them over and gave 'em a ticket."

"For what?" asked Bilal.

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

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

"Dammit!" 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.

"The Bible," said Bilal.

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

The living room windows had been covered with plywood, and the house was neat and clean again except for all the bullet holes, which didn't make any sense to Bilal... the landlord, who lived in the foothills, had threatened to sue for the damage. Bilal had mowed the lawn yesterday because his grandfather had asked him to, and picked the trash from the flowerbed. Mark glanced in though the open front door, patched 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.

"Facing the sun?"

"Facin' Mecca."

"How does he know it's that way?" asked Mark.

"The Koran says, 'all deeds are made complete with their intentions'."

"...Oh."

"You don't pray?" asked Akeem.

Bilal shrugged. "The last time I prayed was on the sidewalk, when Devon... I prayed that he would be alive."

"You an' him was pretty tight."

"Yeah," said Bilal. "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."

"Uh, thanks," said Mark.

Bilal shrugged again. "Thank him. ...But thanks for takin' our backs. Both of you. An' don't say it's just your job 'cause we all know it ain't."

"I used to think it was." Akeem looked at his watch. "Time to get dressed, little bro. The car should be here for your grandfather soon, then we'll take you to the train."

The house was as empty inside as a skull. Bilal's bare feet made padding echoes that followed him into his room. Its window had also been covered with plywood, 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 still thought of the jacket as Devon's, and probably always would. He picked it up 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; the 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. Akeem had recharged his laptop. His pack was already packed with two pairs of socks, boxer shorts, toothbrush, another pair of jeans, along with the Bible and the Koran, though he wasn't sure why he was taking them. He'd also packed the lamp, along with an H.P. Lovecraft book. 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-splintered doorway, feeling an urge to whisper goodbye. ...Goodbye to what, he wondered? This little old house in the dirty old 'hood, a place he had hated at first? 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. A plainclothes cop was waiting beside it, scanning the street, a hand in his jacket. Bilal's grandfather was out on the porch in kufi and robe, staff in hand, his mat rolled neatly under an arm. Bilal hugged him tightly.

Jadd Taimur hugged Bilal in return. "I hope it will not be long until we are together again."

"I hope so, too," said Bilal.

"You have your cousins' address?"

"Yeah."

"Goodbye, then... for now."

"Goodbye, Jadd."

"Always remember you did the right thing."

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

"On whose name be praise. And you, grandson."

Akeem and Mark stood flanking Bilal, watching the street, as Jadd Taimur got into the car and it rolled away in the growing sunlight. Window shades moved in several houses, but no one had come out to witness.

"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. Victims Assistance will hook you up later."

"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' two ain't old enough to drive."

Mark was still scoping the neighborhood like a soldier in a war zone. "Won't they recruit new members?"

"Probably," 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 monkeys!"

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; maybe the pit-bull who pissed on the flowers. A rat scuttled into a gutter drain, and a garbage truck rumbled a few blocks away. "This is the best time to hit us. Show off their power here in the 'hood an' scare folks into stayin' shut up. 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. 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 flashbacks, dawg," said Akeem. "You fightin' American terror now."

Akeem and Mark still flanking Bilal, holsters unsnapped, hands on their guns, they came down the sidewalk across the lawn, 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 cruiser's 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 headed toward them. He boosted Bilal into the cruiser, 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, maybe thirty seconds later as they rolled away up the block.

Sandwiched tightly between the two men, smothered in 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 rounded a corner. "Thorne ain't no expert at this kinda thing. His job is puttin' monkeys in cages. ...What about your friends an' relatives? 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 for my cousins, an' I just found out about them. We only get bills an' junk mail. Plus my magazines. ...I gotta renew the subscriptions."

"Guess that's cool," said Akeem. He stopped for a light and again checked the mirrors. "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. I guess he was kinda bad or somethin'. Dropped outta school an' then sorta vanished. That was before I was born."

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

Bilal smiled. "Yeah, I guess he was. But he wrote to Jadd a few years ago. I think he wanted to find my dad, 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 Sacramento, but we spread pretty thin in the Delta. They send you any pitchers?"

"No," said Bilal. "The letter just said it was cool if I came."

"You reach 'em by email?"

"I guess they don't got a computer, but Jadd still had their snail-mail address."

"What about their mother?" asked Mark. "You never mentioned your aunt."

Bilal shrugged. "My uncle never mentioned her, either. But he only wrote one letter to Jadd before he got killed."

"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 'bout what I said an' who I talked to, 'specially at first. But I think they got a right to know. Like, they could be in danger, too."

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

"I noticed," said Akeem. "Probably boosted, run the plate. Might be able to pop 'em later an' give ‘em a slap on their bad little wrists." He put a hand on Bilal's shoulder. "Don't turn around. We don't wanna scare 'em away."

"Still got our monkey tail?" asked Akeem, swinging the cruiser off the street and into the station parking lot. A train was slowly approaching, rumbling south through Jack London Square, 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 station doors. "They pulled in behind that Wonder Bread truck."

The parking lot bustled with mostly white people, many lugging or pulling suitcases, families with kids, the kids with packs, hurrying for 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. Get in the papers an' on TV. Make little monkeys wanna be big ones."

Mark nodded. "Join the Dubs and be all you can be."

Akeem studied the crowded 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, spitting air from between its wheels, 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 three 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, even if they pull their steel." He paused to scan the building again. "If any of 'em got any brains they know there's cameras all over 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 in 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. "I don't think they have the AKs."

"Probably not," agreed Akeem. "But they got somethin'. Probably keepin' in touch by phone... yeah, little baggy just made a call." He looked around. "If I was the other two I'd come around the Dumpster there."

"Understood," said Mark.

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

"Right now I trust you," said Bilal.

Akeem popped the door and looked at his watch. "Time starts now."

Mark checked his watch. "Don't worry," he said to Bilal as Akeem got out and walked away, heading toward 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 got aboard one of the cars, then pulled something out 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, but I been in the 'hood for two years."

"And you've seen TV and movies." Mark scanned around quickly. "Listen up, we don't have much time. This is a Tokarev, Model TT. 7.62. Not very pretty, 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, checking the parking lot again. "Pull the trigger it'll shoot. And seven more times after that if you need to."

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

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

"From somebody you killed in the war?"

"He was trying to kill me." Mark's eyes saddened. "And he wasn't much older than you." He looked at his shoulder. "But I was wearing this flag, which supposedly made it okay." Again he 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. I heard there's a lot of rivers where you're going."

"...Okay," said Bilal, slipping the gun in his jacket pocket.

"Remember, there's no safety," said Mark. "Unload it as soon as you can... remove the clip and cock it again. Keep your finger off the trigger. Understood?"

"...Yeah."

"Akeem doesn't know about this."

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

Mark laughed. "I just gave a Muslim kid a gun." He checked his watch. "It's show time. Stay ahead of me through the doors. Once we're inside be ready to run."

"Aight," said Bilal, tugging his pack straps tighter. "Thanks, man."

Mark shrugged. "Maybe I'm finally protecting somebody."

Bilal scooted across the driver's seat, squirming 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 Dumpster beside the building. Bilal got out, catching a glimpse of one of the Dubs, maybe fifteen, slinking across the parking lot, face in shadow under his hood, bandana hiding all but his eyes. Then he saw two bigger boys edging around the Dumpster.

"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, the way some women used babies in strollers, his uniform muting the people's curses. A man's voice blared through speakers above the babble of the crowd and the locomotive's rumble outside: 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 some candy machines eating a Snickers bar; a woman glared at Mark when he bumped her; two blond boys about his own age were staring at him being pushed by a cop. A security guard had noticed them and was starting across the room. Bilal shot a glance over his shoulder: three of the Dubs, two big, one small, were shoving their way through the doors, but the people weren't parting before them like they'd done for Mark's uniform. A man in a suit shoved the younger Dub back. That meant their steel was still on the under.

"I see 'em," said Mark, still using Bilal for a ram, bulling their way toward the platform doors, people looking pissed at first but moving aside because Mark was a cop.

"But, there's only three," said Bilal.

"I noticed, keep going!"

Outside, porters were stowing steps as the last of the passengers boarded the train. Hands were waving from windows. The diesels grew louder, 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 gangster 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 .38 in his holster, had pushed his way through the people. "What's going on?"

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 they do. 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 going on. Curses were growing 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 engine thunder now shaking the floor. Its whistle blew a wavering blast. Compressed air hissed as brakes released. Suddenly there were screams of terror. A ripple of panic razored the air.

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

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

Behind them, more screams and yelling broke out 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 a pistol, pounded after Mark and Bilal. The locomotive's thunder had risen. Black smoke swirled along the platform; the train was beginning to move. Faces, surprised, confused or scared, stared from many windows.

"There!" yelled Mark, stabbing a finger three cars down where a porter looked 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, his gun in both hands, drop to a crouch on the platform. The hooded boys burst from the station, skidding cartoonishly to a stop and slamming into each other. The car with the open door was nearing, the train beginning to gather speed. The middle-aged porter scoped the scene and jerked his head back inside.

Bilal expected full-auto fire, but heard Mark yell, "Don't try it!"

The car was creaking 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 station, armed with maybe a cheap Cobray. Bilal remembered an old war movie. "Mark! Nine o'clock!"

The train was still picking up 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, one toe scattering gravel, but a hand reached out and gripped his arm, pulling him inside. There was short burst of fire... Cobrays were famous for jamming. A handful of bullets rattled on steel. Something slammed 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 hammering hail of lead but only heard the diesel drone and the clatter and creak of the car.

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

"I'm okay," panted Bilal.

"Thank god!" The porter pulled 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 hesitated a second, then faced the front of the train and jumped, hitting the ground at a run. He darted away from the clanking wheels and pressed his back to the fence.

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

"Thanks!" Bilal waved back, still panting for breath. The last of the cars went rumbling past in a swirl of dust and a flutter of trash. Inside a window four feet away, a boy was playing a video game, I-pod headphones plugged in his ears. 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 rolled up to the fence, sun gleaming bright on its twenty-inch rims.

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

"Yeah," puffed Bilal. "What about Mark?"

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

"Me too," puffed Bilal. "Guess they were scared of cappin' a cop."

"They got just enough brains to be scared of that."

"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 clang of warning bells stopped at the crossing, and red-and-white arms began to rise. Impatient cars scuttled under. "But, you're on your way to Los Angeles now an' they ain't gonna hunt you that far." He looked at his watch. "'Bout an hour before the bus leaves. Plenty of time for breakfast. Got a steak an' eggs special at I-hop this week." He patted the Explorer's door. "What y'all think of my ride? Eight speakers."

"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, an' I'm sure it don't taste like steak. Ain't lookin' forward to that myself."

Bilal smiled. "Guess I trust two cops now."

"Mark'll be proud hear that. He ain't been feelin' like much of a hero."

"You 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... losin' a victim an' runnin' away."

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

"Be good exercise."

"I just got plenty of that."

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

The sun was getting hot, and the salt-scented air by the Bay was steamy. Bilal shed his pack and 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. ...Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah," said Bilal, scanning the back of the jacket. "Shit! Check my pack! Is my laptop okay?"

"Yeah," said Akeem, looking inside. "But your boxers got drilled. Sorry about your jacket."

"It's only a little hole." Bilal stripped off the vest and his shirt, the sunlight warm on his midnight skin. He sailed them 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 the jacket on 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 raised 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 rusty sign was 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 Bilal didn't have time to read it. The deck was made of steel mesh so the bus almost seemed to be driving on air. 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, bridges big and bridges small, bridges high and bridges low, but now, by crossing this rusty old bridge, a bridge that was mostly empty space like a huge skeleton with 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. It was like when his parents had died.

The bus rumbled under the second tower on the other side of the bridge and slowed to enter a tiny town. It had already stopped in a dozen small towns since leaving what seemed to be a main road and wandering into a mostly flat land of big open fields and small groves of trees under empty blue sky and a hot yellow sun. The towns had all looked shabby and old, though here and there were new Quick-Marts, modern gas stations and sometimes McDonalds. But this town had none of those things. There were only about a dozen buildings: the biggest was made of rust-colored brick and might have once been a saloon or hotel back in the day when people rode horses. Now it was the Channel Market. Beside it was an ancient gas station with a rusty sign that said Flying Horse. There was also a hardware and tractor supply, a little cafe called The Hungry Catfish, a tiny post office that looked like a jail, and a few other stores that were closed or abandoned, some with boards nailed over their windows. It looked like a ghost town of victims, like one of those towns in teen-slasher movies where Jason or Michael appeared after dark.

The bus came to a stop with a hiss of brakes near the high front 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, then shut down and closed the computer. He wrapped it in Devon's jacket, packed 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 everything twice and didn't want to see it again. He'd taken Bilal's ticket in Oakland without even glancing at Bilal, but now he looked up as Bilal walked by.

"Runnin' away from somethin', son?"

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

The driver's face was carefully kind. "Y'all sure, son? If this is as far as you could afford, I can take you on to Sacramento. Our church has a shelter."

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

The driver skimmed Bilal with his eyes like reading a little kid's book. "Well, this ain't West Oakland, so you probably won't be dodgin' bullets." He chuckled. "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 with mud puddles after a rain. 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 bridge, which had green light on this side, too. "Is there another bus today?"

"Bored already?" asked the driver. "Comes though about seven-thirty. ...Sure you don't wanna checkout our shelter?"

"I'm cool. But thanks." Bilal stepped down to hot asphalt, broken and buckled by patches of weeds. The door closed 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 wail 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 front porch below a rusty Greyhound sign. He climbed the steps to sit in the shade and pull out his cousins' address... 13 Channel Road. That couldn't be far in a town this small. He glanced at the tiny post office: 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 wrote.

An elderly man came out of the store. He was white and carried a broom. Bilal remembered a movie about a little southern town: the man would call him niggerboy and chase him off with the broom!

"Well, hello, son."

"...Hello, sir," said Bilal.

"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, but maybe didn't know it. "Shared a foxhole on Iwo Jima with a buddy named Elroy Washington." His faded gray eyes seemed to look far away. "I would've died for Elroy, but he ended up dyin' for me."

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

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

"Do you know where Channel Road is?"

"Lookin' for the graveyard?"

"...Huh?"

The man pointed at the rusty 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 Japanese like most of the other little farms. ...Guess they won the war after all. ...Goin' west is the church. Saint Thaddeus." He broke into a cackle. "All the kids call it Saint Toads. Then the school. Nearly a mile. Then the Moonview. Nothin' but farmland after that. Till you get down to Saunders Ferry." His wrinkled face turned sour. "Got a Wal-Mart there. 'Bout put this town in the graveyard!" He shifted his gaze across the street at several boarded buildings. "Mason's Variety went first, then Kelly's Shoes an' Benson's Rexall. Smith's Hardware will probably go next. ...Barely hangin' on myself." He paused to spit off the porch. "If Wal-Mart 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 Akeem had warned him to 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 to ask them, but then 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 and walked toward the 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 a summer of sitting around, but he'd never walked very far in his life, that's what busses and BART were for. Channel Road followed the slow green river. ...Or was it called a channel? The highway hugged the other side but there wasn't much traffic on either road; a few big trucks and old pickups, along with a dusty car now and then. His shirt was growing wet with sweat as he trudged along the weedy shoulder. He saw a big brown 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 saw some cows in a distant field but they were behind a barbed-wire fence. He passed a weathered wooden church with a rusty bell in its tilted tower. It looked like the church in Jeepers-Creepers. 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 made him remember breakfast at I-hop. But that had been hours ago: he should have scored a snack at the store. Again, he noticed how quiet it was. The sun was hot, the sky was clear, and the only sounds were the few trucks and cars on the other side of the channel.

He saw a burger joint ahead, across the road on the riverbank. The bus had passed a lot of them 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. The sign was faded and looked homemade, 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 was a short wooden dock and a little boat with an outboard motor.

Bilal's stomach growled as his nose was haunted by lingering spirits of melted cheese and drifting ghosts of sizzling meat. He paused across the road; Devon would have checked the place out, and it was way past lunchtime. But then he saw the school ahead. Business first, a burger later.

The school looked like the school in The Birds. It was two shabby stories of weathered white boards and stood in a weedy yellow field surrounded by a chain-link fence. To the right were rusty monkey-bars and other ancient iron things too dangerous for Oakland parks. 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 that might been copied from Disney. RUST RACCOONS was painted above, and the mascot's name was, naturally, Rusty.

Boys were playing flag football while a beer-bellied coach yelled curses at them. The boys were sixth and seventh-graders, 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. Several boys were coppery brown, two long-haired like Indian dudes, but nobody seemed to be black. A few were chubby or wobbly fat, including both the Indian boys who looked like shirtless girls. A girl's class played on a basketball court with a coach who looked like a woman truck driver and sounded about the same. The girls were white or brown like the boys. Except for the sweating P.E. classes, a line of battered bikes in a rack, and pickups and cars in a dirt parking lot, the school looked as dead as the town.

Bilal came up the cracked sidewalk, the underarms of his T-shirt soaked and trickles of sweat on 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 seemed hotter inside than out in the sun. There was no guard or metal 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. 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 rows of dented lockers, olive-green like Army Jeeps. The classroom door windows had wire in their glass, their numbers old-fashioned and 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, cookies and Coke... the newest-looking things in the house. The usual stuff was tacked to the walls; drawings in crayon and waterpaint, most with Halloween themes, which seemed to feature lots of skulls, and anti-alcohol, drug, tobacco, gang, and obesity warnings. There were two posters for DARE. McGruff advised, Take A Bite Out Of Crime. 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 blubber-boy 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