Scott’s promise nestles in my ear like a worm. Rest up, he instructs in the locker room after our victory over Robbindale.

Tomorrow, we turn you into a king.

“Kurt? Kurt, hon?” Patti knocks on my bedroom door and it slowly creaks open. “That boy, Scott, is downstairs. He says something about taking you on a Captains’ Hunt. I never heard of a Captains’ Hunt. He said it’s a tradition.” Patti sticks her head farther into my room and stage-whispers, “I don’t much care for Mr. Man’s attitude, by the way.”

I nod at her while working up the energy to stand.

“He said only current and future captains are invited,” Patti continues, not whispering anymore but keeping her voice confidential. “Are you going to be captain of the team, Kurt? Why didn’t you say something, hon? That’s something to be real proud of.”

It feels like a hundred dentist drills are tapping holes in my skull. A Captains’ Hunt? Did Scott mention that to me last night? Honestly, everything is fuzzy.

“Uhhh . . .”

“You get dressed, hon, and sort it out with Mr. God’s Gift downstairs.”

“Kurt.” I hear Scott calling up from Patti’s living room. “Come on, man. You’re messing with a sacred tradition. We got to go. Can’t be late. I told you to be ready last night.”

“That boy’s too bossy for my tastes,” Patti says under her breath. “I don’t care if he is the quarterback. Someone forgot to teach him his manners.”

“Coming,” I groan. “Puh-puh-Patti, wuh-wuh-would you mind getting me some aspuh-puh-prin?”

“Sure thing, hon,” she says. “I heard you were the reason we beat Robbindale. Two parents called me last night. Never even met them. They phoned just to tell me how good ‘my boy’ was.” As she chuckles her lungs rattle with loose phlegm until it turns into a wet cough, then dies down. “I was planning a real breakfast for you today,” Patti says. “I went out and got eggs and bacon and toaster waffles and I even splurged and got the real syrup, the stuff from trees. I was going to give my star a lumberjack breakfast like he deserves.”

“Kurt!” Scott shouts up the stairs.

“Kuh-kuh-coming,” I yell back.

“Hold your horses,” Patti snaps down the stairs. Then to me she mutters, “Someone got distracted when they were raising that one.”

“Can we have that buh-buh-breakfast tuh-tuh-tomorrow?”

“You betcha. I got to keep the Knights’ star and future captain fueled up,” Patti says, then lets me alone to get dressed. I sniff my jeans and T-shirt and they don’t smell awful. I pull them on, pull a sweatshirt on next, then pull on a wool overcoat Patti got for me from the Salvation Army. I can’t get my letter jacket until after the season finishes but it’d be too cold for it today, anyway. The overcoat’s too tight in the chest and too short in the arms but it’s the closest thing I have to something that fits. Going down the staircase, I lean hard on the handrail. My insteps ache. My thighs burn from overuse and blob-shaped bruises. My left calf pinches every time I take a step, reminding me how someone ground their cleat into it under cover of a gang pile. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott waits with both his arms spread out like he’s expecting a sarcastic hug. His sling is gone.

“Hey, big man,” he greets me. “Hell of a game last night. We missed you at the party.”

“Yuh-your suh-suh-sling is gone.” I point with my chin.

“Sure is, Sherlock Holmes,” Scott says. “Not a moment too soon, either, before Warner starts thinking he actually had something to do with last night’s win. Speaking of the win, there’s a good chance you or Terrence might get prep athlete of the week. If you get it twice in a season Coach’ll have to get a PO box for all your recruiting letters.”

That’s a sweet little thought, and despite my groggy brain, aching body, and the fact that Scott Miller stands in Patti’s living room like he’s the landlord, I give up a half grin.

“A Cuh-cuh-cuh-Captains’ Hunt?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “It’s tradition. Cold out today, though. Good thing you got that coat ... but the bum you took it from might miss it.”

“I heard that,” Patti says, walking back into the living room with a glass of water and two aspirin. She narrows her eyes at Scott while handing me the pills. “Some people’s children,” she mutters. This fails to stuff his smirk.

“Thanks.” I take the aspirin from Patti and swallow them with the glass of water.

“You need something to eat,” she says to me and me only. “Can’t take aspirin on an empty stomach.”

“Wuh-wuh-we’ll get duh-duh-drive-through.” Now that Coach’s been giving me even more money, drive-through’s my breakfast of choice on weekends and even a few days before school. It’s cheap and fills me up.

“Let’s go, superstar,” Scott says. “We need to get a move on.” He’s already stepping through the front door, so he misses Patti shaking her head back and forth at him. I hold up both palms in apology.

Patti sheeshes. “Sure hope this Captains’ Hunt is worth it.”

“Me tuh-tuh-tuh-too.”

“You be safe, Kurtis,” Patti tells me. “You guys won’t actually be hunting, will you? Especially with that one?” Patti flips her chin to the doorway, meaning Scott.

I shrug my shoulders, not knowing the answer.

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him,” she says.

Good advice, I think, and step out of her house, then get into the Camaro. Patti stays at the door, lighting a cigarette and retying her housecoat against the chill of the outside air.

“Your orphan-mom’s a drag, huh?” Scott says once we’re sealed inside his car. Soon as he backs out her driveway and turns around, Scott guns the engine and pops the clutch. The big tires squeal against the sleepy street, loud and sharp enough to scalp me.

“We’ll make a quick stop for food and then you can settle in ’cause were driving about two hours north,” Scott says. “Tommy’s granddad has some land up there we’re going to use.”

“Fuh-fuh-for what?”

“You’ll see.” Scott glances at me, giving no hint. “By the way, you ever hunted before?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything, right?”

“It’s juh-juh-just us?”

“Whatsa matter, bro? I’m not good enough? I’m the benched quarterback and suddenly I’m chopped liver?” Scott asks in a voice that’s mostly—but not completely—j oking.

“Yeah,” I answer back, mostly—but not completely—joking.

“Tommy’s taking Pullman,” Scott says. “Mike’s taking Wally Peters and I’m taking you. Just the six of us. Time to pass the torch to the future seniors. Of course, technically, you’re way beyond junior, probably way beyond senior, but that’s our secret, right?”

Scott says this like he knows I’ve been held back in school because of being tossed around group homes. Only way he could know any of it is through Tom’s cop dad digging up dirt on Meadow’s House. Or maybe Patti and Coach have more heart-to-heart conversations than I realize. Maybe Coach confides in his captains. I ignore the comment as best I can.

“Don’t fuh-fuh-fuh-forget to suh-suh-suh-stop for fuh-fuh-fuh-food,” I stutter hard, and wipe quickly at the spit leaking down my lip. Scott takes his time watching me. I pull a twenty out of my pocket, part of the fifty Coach slipped me last night after the game.

“Son, you are the definition of a soldier,” Coach said, bringing me into his office after the victory, shaking my hand, crumpling the paper bills into my palm. “Missing our starting quarterback, getting no blocking from our line, and you let it roll off you like water off a duck. You treat yourself to a nice dinner, feed those muscles. You deserve it. Next week, we’ll talk with Coach Stein about your supplements. The D-bol’s good but there’s better stuff, more potent weapons, for you if you’re interested in staying a champion.”

Scott swings the Camaro into the drive-through lane. I order three pancake-and-egg breakfasts. Scott orders two Egg McMuffins. After we get our food, Scott smokes the drive-through, leaving a patch of rubber and a blue cloud fouling up the cashier’s window. With his mouth open with raw laughter, the first bite of his Egg McMuffin lolls around his tongue.

As we drive, the distance between houses slowly grows until lawns turn into fields and finally give way to acres of fallow farmland. Rows of broken, brown cornstalks race along outside our windows, hypnotizing me.

“You got a big appetite,” Scott says. “It get that way from the ’roids or you always eat that much?”

Scott’s question surprises me. “I always eat thuh-thuhthis way.”

“I eat lots but it picked up after I started popping.’Course it ain’t like Mike or Tommy. They’re always shoveling the food in but that’s ’cause they’re into the heavier stuff. They’re shooting the shit in their asses, now. Once I saw the needles and syringes, I was like, no thanks, I’ll keep my pills, you can have your AIDS and shit. I mean, I don’t need it that bad. Besides, quarterback’s a finesse position, that’s what Rick used to say. Game’s mostly brute force but a quarterback’s the thinker. Quarterback’s an artist, he’d say.”

“Who’s Ruh-ruh-Rick?”

“Older brother. Never got to play quarterback. Coach made him a free safety. He owned that position, though. Got four interceptions one game, ran three of them back for touchdowns. No one’ll touch that record.”

“Wuh-where’s he puh-play now?”

“Now?” Scott repeats my question before answering. “Now he’s dead. Got killed in Bumfuckistan. Dumbass signed up to fight the towel-heads even though he’d been offered a partial scholarship to the university. Said a partial ride was an insult. If that’s the best they can do, he said, then screw ’em, he’d go with an organization that would pay his full ride. The army.”

I don’t say anything back, just watch the rows of corn zip past our windshield.

“You know the best thing about seeing all those recruiting letters come in for me?” Scott asks. “It’s getting the chance to remind them about Rick, remind them they didn’t offer him a dime even though he was twice the athlete I am. Didn’t touch the pills, either. Totally clean. Dumb fucking schools don’t know shit.”

“Suh-suh-so you’re ruh-ruh-rejecting all of them?”

“You think I’m an idiot?” Scott slaps the steering wheel. “Of course not. Just ’cause I don’t like what they did to Rick doesn’t mean I won’t take their scholarship money. But it’s fun making them squirm first when they call, acting like they’re my best friend.” Scott stomps on the accelerator. The Camaro races down the two-lane highway for a few miles before either of us speaks.

“Dude,” Scott says, clearing his throat. “Where’d those scars come from?”

I finger the dashboard for a second, deciding what to reveal. Maybe it’s because Scott tells me about his older brother, Rick, that I decide to do more than shrug. “Tuh-tuh-too young to ruh-ruh-remember,” I say, staring out at the rows of corn. “They tuh-tuh-tuh-told me a boiling puh-puh-pot landed on me.”

“Yeah, right.” Scott snorts. “After someone threw it at you.”

I close my eyes, recall shouts and crashing glass and then a hand clamping around my neck, lifting me up, carrying me into the kitchen, holding me over a glowing stove coil. My memory drops off at that point. Remnants surface when I’m real angry or scared and the world around me erupts into orange-red fire. After the stove coil, the next thing I can remember were these new voices, different voices, and friendly adults surrounding me. I guess I was two or three at the time.

“Yuh-yuh-you’re right,” I answer.

“So you’re saying your mom did that to you?”

“No.” I shake my head, refusing to think that. “Puh-puh-probably the guh-guh-guy she was with.”

“Your dad.”

“Naw, he wuh-wuh-wuh-wouldn’t do that to me.”

“How do you know?”

I don’t.

“Sounds like your old man and my old man would get along real good,” Scott says. “What about the long scar? It looks like you were in a knife fight or something.”

“That kuh-kuh-came later, at another puh-puh-place. The guh-guh-guy running it did it with a suh-suh-suhscissors one night.”

“No shit!”

“He tuh-tuh-told the doctors that my buh-buh-best friend did it to me and that I buh-buh-broke my fuh-fuhfriend’s arm in a fuh-fuh-fight. They buh-buh-believed him. They always buh-buh-buh-believed him. Every time.”

“That’s pretty hard-core, dude.”

“Yeah.”

The food starts settling in my stomach, making me drowsy. I shut my eyes for good as the aspirin helps my head. The ache over my eyes simmers down to an irritating buzz.

“In case you didn’t know, shooting a cow while hunting deer or pheasant doesn’t count,” Scott says. “And that ain’t no joke. The farmers around here get real ornery about their property and their livestock.”

“Nuh-nuh-no cows. Got it.”

The green fields crack open into bramble brush and trees. The cracks widen into little forests that spread farther and farther. The few leaves still attached to the trees are the color of old pennies. Scott slows and turns off onto a dirt road that seems more like someone’s private driveway. A big “No Trespassing” sign is posted on a pole about fifty feet down the road. I remember the same signs strung along the trees up at the quarry. Wish we were heading there instead.

We drive another mile or so until coming upon Studblatz’s red pickup and Tom’s blue Mustang pulled over to the side of the dirt road. White vapors wisp out of their tailpipes while their engines idle. As we slowly roll past, I see Wally Peters and Pullman in the passenger seats. Scott steers us half off the road and my side settles into the embankment as we park.

“All right. Let’s do this,” Scott says. As I get out of the car, the brisk air slaps at my cheeks, picking at my scars. I button up the collar of my raggedy coat.

“You going to a funeral or something?” Jankowski asks me. “What kind of hunting coat is that?”

“Didn’t know wuh-wuh-we were going hunting,” I say, never mind I don’t own a hunting jacket.

“Hey, Kurt,” Wally Peters greets me. “My dad told me to tell you good game last night.” Wally seems pretty happy at the moment. He’s holding a can of beer. So are Studblatz, Pullman, and Tom.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, man, you dismantled their secondary,” Pullman says, then slurps from his can.

I nod in reply since my stuttering seems to get worse around Studblatz and Jankowski and I’m not in the mood for their jokes. Scott opens his trunk and starts rummaging. Along with the spare tire squatting in the center, there’s a Maglite, gas tank, sports bag, and a semi-deflated basketball. There are also two cases of beer wedged into the back corner and two long, skinny canvas bags, making an X across all the junk. Scott grabs the first canvas bag, silk-screened in camouflage green, and slides out a shotgun. He hands the heavy, cold thing to me. He grabs the other canvas bag, which is all black, and slides out his own shotgun. The only difference I notice between the two guns is the wood on his stock is a cherry red and mine is a plainer walnut brown.

“You boys ready?” Scott asks, resting his shotgun, barrel up, against the fender of his car. He reaches into the trunk to unwedge one of the beer cases when the barrel of his shotgun starts sliding along the Camaro’s smooth molded fender. Scott stops it from tipping over with his foot, balancing on one leg himself. “Here ya go,” he says, pulling out two beers, handing one to me. I put the cold can up to my lips and swallow back a big mouthful, hoping to wash down the alarm growing in my gut. The thought of drinking so early doesn’t make me nearly as sick as I imagined. At least I’ve already had breakfast.

“Now, the point of any good hunting trip is to get really shit-faced,” Scott says, cracking open his own can and sucking it down.

“Well, I’m about halfway there already,” Wally Peters chortles. He’ll be Studblatz’s replacement after Mike graduates. Wally will need lots more size and the temper of a rabid wolverine to equal Studblatz.

“Yeah, me too,” Pullman says. Pullman’s been ass-kissing his captains ever since Chandre Jackson beat him up and put Scott’s shoulder out of commission two weeks ago. Pullman knows he was manhandled all game. Might be my imagination, but I’m sure he’s already added more bulk in just the last two weeks. I wonder if our coaches had a private meeting about the powers of D-bol with Pullman as well. To make up for the loss of Jankowski next year, he’ll need something.

“Good,” Scott says. “Okay, rule one is the future captains have got to drink twice what the current captains drink. You’ve got to show us your fortitude, show us you have what it takes. Show us you’re men, not pussies. We’ve got plenty of beer here, so don’t be shy. Rule two is you’ve got to bag something before we leave. Lots of pheasants in the fields just past this tree line. They’d look real nice on the mantel. But if you get desperate and we’re all getting cold, then, there’s plenty of squirrels and crows hanging out, too stupid to run or fly away. It don’t get much easier than that.”

“All right,” Wally cheers. “Gonna bag me a mean ol’ squirrel.” He reaches into Studblatz’s pickup and pulls out his shotgun from the gun rack mounted against the back window. He starts waving it around in a way that makes me real nervous. Studblatz frowns as he snatches the gun away from Wally.

“How about we get past our cars before you start shooting,” he says.

“But that’s the spirit, Wally,” Scott encourages. “And I toast that. Drink up, men.” Scott holds his can up to his lips and empties his first beer, Adam’s apple working like a piston. Finished, he wipes his sleeve across his mouth and power belches. “You know what that means, right, future captains? You each have to finish two cans. Now let’s get drinking.” With a wink, Scott hands me another can, so I’m holding two. No way can I drink both of these this early, but everyone seems real interested in me at the moment. So I finish the first one, then make a face and belch. My headache does soften, though, I have to admit.

“ Attaboy,” Scott says. “One more to go. I’ll even let you bring it with us.”

I sip from the second can. “Guh-guh-gotta take a puh-puh-piss,” I announce, and walk down the embankment to the trees. Facing the trunk of a big oak, I unzip and tip out most of the second beer onto the bed of leaves at my feet while relieving myself. I return, still holding my can, sipping air from it. By now everyone has a can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Except Scott. He holds a shotgun in each hand.

“Let’s go,” Scott says.

I grab a dozen beers out of the first case and stow them in the gym bag Scott tosses me. Both Wally and Pullman sling their own bags of beer. I don’t know how many Wally’s already had before we arrived but he’s already weaving a squiggly path through the woods. I ain’t real excited about walking next to him while he swings around a loaded gun at anything that moves.

“All right, here’s where it begins.” Scott stops us about two hundred yards into the thin forest. From this point, you can see the beginning of farm fields to our left. “Each captain, take your future captain off in a different direction. Stud and Wally, you guys head that way. Tommy and Pullman, you guys go due west. Me and Kurt’ll go this way. Before we separate, another toast.”

Scott slugs down his can and drops it, forcing me, Wally, and Pullman to each take two cans for ourselves. Wally upends his and swallows it down no problem. He’s either going to be sick or pass out, but no way is he shooting anything other than a tree or a cornstalk or sky. Pullman drinks his first one a little slower, and while everyone focuses on him and Wally, I pour most of mine into the ground, pretending to tie my shoe. I stand up and tip the can to my mouth, swallowing what I haven’t spilled, about a quarter can.

“One more to go,” Scott says. Tom and Mike laugh. I drink half the next can and wait. Wally, it seems, isn’t really worried about pacing himself, which fascinates the other guys. By the end of his second can, he stumbles backward as he’s emptying it and falls on his butt. While everyone guffaws, I tip my can into the leaves. Pullman, too, starts to shuffle his feet while standing and swings his head around, trying, but failing, to track whoever’s speaking.

“Okay, men. Go forth. Bring me feathers of fowl ... or at least a squirrel pelt,” Scott commands us. “Mike and Tommy, look after these guys,” Scott says. “They’re the team’s future.”

I’m guessing Wally’s probably had a six-pack to himself already. Pullman maybe four or five. While I’ve emptied four, I’ve actually only drunk one and a half.

“Let’s go, superstar,” Scott says. He holds out the shotgun with the walnut-brown stock and I grab it like I do this all the time. The steel barrel is icy in my fingers. I watch Scott tuck his gun so the wood stock wedges under his armpit and the barrel rests over his forearm; his hands aren’t even touching it. I imitate him. It’s easy to carry this way and even lets me tuck my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. I figure shooting the thing just means pulling the trigger. Scott must be reading my thoughts.

“Shotguns are simple,” he says. “Like a camera. Just point and shoot. It’s a twelve-gauge, so you get a pretty solid shot pattern, about a foot across. There’s a little safety switch by the trigger. See that?” He holds up his gun and shows me a little thumb lever that he slides forward and back. I examine my gun and find the same lever. “Push it forward and the safety is off,” Scott says. “Now you can shoot. Slide it back and the safety is on and the trigger is locked. That’s about it. Now time for another beer.”

I dutifully reach into the beer bag and hand Scott a can and take one out for myself. Scott chugs it likes he’s been in a desert for a week. I whistle like I’m impressed, my own can tipped upside down at my side, draining into the forest, while Scott’s still drinking. When he finishes I bring my own can up and swallow back the remaining mouthful in my can. “You got one more to go,” Scott reminds me. “Chugalug that bad boy.”

I’ve got no choice with the next can since he’s standing there watching me. I drink the whole beer and feel my stomach push out with air. I belch with gusto, like I’m calling out to a musk ox. Scott answers this by swinging his gun up into the air and not aiming or anything, just pulling the trigger.

The blast punches my ears, almost leveling me. I hear nothing but mosquitoes buzzing for the next minute while my head tightens up. No way do I want to be near that again or shoot my own. Scott looks supremely satisfied, like he just taught my dumb ass how to make fire or something. Two boom-booms answer us from the direction of Mike and Wally and then another boom off to our left from the direction of Tom and Pullman. Scott raises his barrel to the sky again. I juggle my cold gun and clap my hands over my ears just in time.

Scott’s gun arm jerks with the sharp recoil of the blast. My ears, protected this time by my hands, are still jarred, but at least the explosion doesn’t hurt.

“That’s the call of the wild, baby.” Scott laughs. “Call of the wild.” The last full can of beer I just finished starts making me feel light, but not light enough to fly away from him and the others.

“Give me another beer,” Scott orders. He drinks this time without noticing I haven’t pulled one out for myself. We continue walking through the woods. My hearing slowly returns. The ringing mostly disappears but the headache still hovers. After a while, I notice the sound of my footsteps again, crunching the dried leaves and snapping small twigs. The wind plays through the tree branches in shushing gusts that bring old leaves fluttering down on us like ashes.

“Where you going, superstar?” Scott calls out. I turn around. I’ve gotten about thirty feet ahead of him without trying. He walks a little unsteady, his gun tucked back under his arm, its barrel pointing down at the ground. “You trying to lose me out here?” Scott asks, then laughs at his own question. “I know this area real good and you’re just the rookie. You should be afraid of getting lost. Not me.” I ignore him, turn forward, and keep walking, maybe even moving a little faster. “You’re the one that needs my help,” he calls out again. “You think you can just waltz onto my team—my team—and take it over? You think Tommy and Studblatz will stand for that? You’ve got to pay your dues, rookie. You think just ’cause I’m on the bench, that I’m not the team captain anymore? The recruiting letters are still coming. Coach told me so. So I don’t need some freak shooting off his mouth and making up stories about me and Tommy and Mike. Hell, if it wasn’t for me, you’d’ve never gotten lucky with Marcia. Those girls drew straws and she lost. She had to down four vodkas at Mike’s party before I could convince her to go with you. And she’ll fuck anything.”

I say nothing. I continue walking, hoping he’ll shut up. For about thirty seconds my wish comes true. Then it ends.

“Gunderson killed himself ’cause he was weak, like Coach said,” Scott hollers out suddenly, like we’ve been discussing the suicide all morning. “Had nothing to do with us.”

I stop for a second, but don’t turn around. The sight of him, and that smirk I know he’s wearing, will be too much, probably make me want to tackle him and pound his head against the nearest tree trunk. I hear the rush of alcohol in his words, hear how it slurs them together, hear how he’s only able to speak Ronnie’s name because of it.

“You know what you duh-duh-did,” I shout over my shoulder plenty loud for him to hear. “You and Muh-muh-muh-Mike and Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom. All of you know wuh-wuh-what you duh-duh-did.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott shouts back. He must have stopped walking because he sounds even more distant. I still can’t bring myself to turn and face him. “Are you threatening to snitch on us? Because it’s your word against ours. And no one’s going to believe a murderer. We all know about you, K-K-K-K-Kurt,” Scott taunts. “Tom’s dad found out. You may be the superstar right now but no one’s gonna believe a psycho’s word against your captains’.”

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you know what you did!” I shout again, unable to help myself. Wanting my words to hit home, I turn around in time to find Scott about seventy feet back with his shotgun lifted and aimed in my direction.

“What you did, Mr. Wolf. What you did!” he yells, and I know it’s coming then. I drop just as the blast roars out from his gun. Twelve-gauge shot rips the branches and leaves over my head.

Son of a bitch.

I lie there for a second, stunned, then hoist my gun up, intent on using it. I peek out from behind an old, rotted-out tree trunk and see Scott standing there, his gun tucked back under his arm, barrel facing down.

“Come on out, Mr. Wolf,” Scott shouts. “It was an accident. Hunting accidents happen all the time out here. Especially when guys are drinking and shooting. Probably more common than suicide, I bet.”

Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! I stand up, my heavy cold gun trained on Scott. Slowly I walk toward him, keeping the gun as steady as my furious, trembling hands will allow.

“Don’t be mad, now,” Scott says. “It was an accident. I thought I saw a squirrel in the tree above you is all.” He starts giggling. “I wasn’t aiming for you. It just went off while you were near where I was aiming.”

“Sh-sh-sh-shut up!”

“Look, it’s okay. As long as we understand each other.

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you’re wrong!” I continue walking toward him. His gun is still pointing down. I can’t remember whether the safety switch is supposed to be forward or back, so I keep my thumb on it ready to flick either way.

“Wrong about what, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott taunts, that smirk of his returning. I almost pull the trigger just to blow that smirk away forever. “About the fact that it was you that came into that room and did all those things to that little fag? That me, Mike, and Tom tried to stop you but it was too late? That you learned all that dirty crap at the orphanage where you killed that kid? Once you do somethin’ like that you can’t quit. You’re a repeat offender. That’s what Tom’s dad calls it. And he’s a cop. He knows how your sick mind works.”

“Suh-suh-someone else was in that stuh-stuh-stuhstorage room. Hidden in the kuh-kuh-corner. Behind the muh-muh-muh-mats. Suh-suh-suh-saw all of you. He knows the truh-truh-truth and he’ll tuh-tuh-tuh-tell it.” My mind buzzes with possibility and threat. My clumsy words ricochet off Scott’s drunk forehead and it takes a moment for him to consider them. Then he shakes off his doubt.

“Sure someone was in that room.” Scott sneers. “They were using an invisible cape, I bet. Just hanging out, watching us drill that faggot and not saying anything, huh?”

“Duh-duh-duh-Danny Meehan,” I spit. “Suh-suhsophomore. Suh-suh-small as Ronnie. Afraid if he tuh-tuh-tuh-tried to suh-suh-suh-stop you, he’d end up like Ruh-ruh-Ronnie. Probably right.”

Scott’s face changes, doesn’t look so smug as he weighs the possibility I’m not bluffing, then wonders how screwed he might be. Injecting that doubt and fear into Scott is worth spilling Danny’s name; feels as powerful as casting a hex on Scott for how his lips pinch together and his cheeks turn white. “Duh-duh-Danny Meehan knows everything, suh-suh-saw everything. He’ll tuh-tuh-tell the world. It’s not thuh-thuh-three against one. It’s luh-luh-luh-liars against truh-truh-truth. And I duh-duh-duh-did not kuh-kuh-kill Lamar. He’s my buh-buh-buh-best friend. Ever! You duh-duh-don’t know about that. Neither does Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom’s duh-duh-duh-dad.”

A ripple crosses Scott’s brow while he digests this new information. By now I’ve closed within a barrel length from him. When he starts to raise his gun, I leap at him, wrapping my cold fingers around the long steel barrel, ripping it from his hands same time it goes off.

The barrel jerks in my grip as shot sprays off to my left. Eardrum feels blown and I can barely hear but I see Scott’s eyes widen in fright. His empty hands rise to his shoulders like I’m sticking him up. His mouth opens and the sounds he makes are dull, muffled.

“Easy, Mr. Wolf,” he says. “I was about to hand it over.”

That name again! It’s too much. I raise my own gun and aim it at the sky then pull the trigger. Nothing. I flip the safety switch and pull again. The hammer draws back and then clicks. Nothing happens. It’s not even loaded. Son of a bitch! I’m such an idiot! They all know it, too! I throw my empty gun like a spear, hurling it as far as I can into the woods, aiming for a tree trunk, hoping to smash it. The gun misses, sailing harmlessly into the underbrush. I flip Scott’s gun into my right hand and pull the trigger.

The thunder splits my head wide open. My trusty companion, pain, wraps me in its arms. I pull the trigger again, ready to pull it ten more times, but the gun clicks dead. Deafness helps cocoon me. I swing Scott’s gun like a bat and let go, watching it fly end over end into the forest. I holler loud as I can, but my own voice sounds distant and cottony to my beaten ears. I search the forest for an answer or even a clue. Nothing comes out to greet me except high-pitched ringing.

“We’re guh-guh-guh-going home,” I tell him.

“Shit. What about my guns?”

“Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuck your guns. You luh-luh-luh-lost them in an accident,” I tell him. “Accidents happen all the tuh-tuh-tuh-time out here, ruh-ruh-remember? Often as three kuh-kuh-captains kuh-kuh-killing a boy.”

Scott’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. I drop his bag of beer.

“Let’s. Go,” I say, shoving him in the chest. He stumbles but keeps his balance. We walk a fast pace back to his Camaro. I’m tired of guns and beer and threats and fearing my captains.

“Wuh-wuh-we’re leaving,” I announce when we reach his car.

“But what about the other guys?”

“Duh-duh-duh-don’t care.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then guh-guh-guh-give me your kuh-kuh-keys.”

Scott changes his mind, gets his keys, and we take off. He weaves on the road, so I keep my hand near the steering wheel, ready to correct him. Sometimes I bark orders at him just to watch his reaction. He flinches when I do this and it makes me feel powerful, having something over the homecoming king and star quarterback. Making our great leader wince feels good. He won’t control me. I’ll control him. Telling him about Danny was stupid, I admit that. But I can’t help it. Watching all that doubt cloud Scott’s perfect face feels good. Let him worry and fear like the rest of us, if only for a moment. This isn’t over and I’ll pay for it, later. So will Danny. But for the rest of the ride home in that golden Camaro, I hold all the power and that’s worth something.