I’ve cleared most the front lawn when an old beater pulls into our driveway. The rusted-out car grovels for a new muffler and a sooty cloud trails from its exhaust pipe. When it shuts off, the engine coughs a few times before finally giving up. Squinting, I lift a work-gloved hand to block out autumn’s low sun hitting my eyes. I find Kurt stepping from the car. His visit is unexpected and sets off a mix of warmth and dread. My friend, my gut warns, is about to deliver bad news.

“Cuh-cuh-calm duh-duh-down.”

“You calm down. You’re the one that told them I saw the whole thing.”

“They’re tuh-tuh-trying to buh-buh-blame me for it,” Kurt says, as if that’s a good enough reason to give me up. “Suh-suh-Scott suh-suh-said they’ll tuh-tuh-tell everyone I’m a muh-muh-murderer. You and Buh-buh-Bruce have to stop tuh-tuh-tagging.”

“Fine. We won’t tag their lockers anymore. But you shouldn’t have told them about me. I’m dead. They’re gonna kill me.”

“No they wuh-wuh-won’t.”

“Kurt, if they could get away with it, you know they would,” I say. “You saw what they did to Ronnie, the way they enjoyed it, enjoyed torturing him. People like me and Ronnie don’t matter to them. We’re just obstacles to them, not ... you know ... people.”

Kurt listens and then, after a long moment, nods his head. “Yeah,” he says, agreeing with me in a way that I don’t want him to, in a way that sends a shiver along my neck and scalp. I slap the rake against our fence in frustration. Kurt just stands there, hands jammed into his pockets, not helping. Then his head jerks as if a thought’s come over him. I’m waiting, expectant, ready to hear some brilliant plan that’s occurred to him that will save me, make everything all right. Instead, he walks over to my pile of leaves and steps around the edges. He crouches down, pressing on the top of the pile with his hands, testing its firmness and cushion. Satisfied, he stands up and turns his back to the pile, concentrates for a few moments, and then springs. His hands crash through the leaves and his legs whip over into a clunky back handspring. While he won’t win any style points, he does make it safely around, landing somewhere between his feet and knees. Despite my building fear at the news he brings, I can’t help but be impressed by his trick. He’s really learned how to do a back handspring. It’s ugly, but it counts.

“Whip your legs over faster and don’t let your elbows bend,” I say instinctively, not forgetting why he’s come here but glad to distract myself for a moment. Kurt dusts off his hands. Leaf crumbs stick to his hair, pants, and shirt. He goes back to the edge and tries it again. This time he keeps his elbows locked like I instructed. He makes it all the way to his feet, finishing in a crouch. “Better,” I say. Kurt nods at me from his squat in the pile, like some sort of Baby Huey five-year-old. The big bastard has the start of a smile on his face and I can tell he’s pretty satisfied with his improvement. He does one more, just as good as the earlier one.

“Maybe you should come out for our sport instead,” I say, leaning against my rake handle. Kurt wipes his hands along his jeans and shirt, then pulls stray leaves off his shoulders and knees. He steps out of the pile and walks up to me. He is still huge.

“Buh-buh-be buh-buh-brave, Danny,” he tells me.

“Easy for you to say. You’re the Incredible Hulk and I’m, like ... Snoopy.”

“Muh-more like Suh-suh-Spider-Man.”

“I wish,” I say, though I like that Kurt thinks that about me.

“Yuh-yuh-you like Buh-buh-Batman?” he asks, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling out his cell phone, flipping it open. Guess he’d rather keep the phone in his pocket when he does handsprings than risk leaving it behind again.

“He’s all right. Kinda seems like a pussy, though, without his utility belt and all his gizmos. I mean, if he’s naked, he ain’t really worth crap.”

“We need a Buh-buh-Bat Signal,” Kurt says, then explains what he means. I drop my rake and go into the house to get my phone.