“Think you can protect those little shits forever?” Jankowski asks. “Think we won’t get them?”

Studblatz takes a step to the side, ready to go around me. I shift with him, promising to cut him off, and he stops but jabs a finger over my shoulder. “Those little fuckers are dead! You hear me? Dead!”

“Your little Danny boy needs the Ronnie treatment,” Scott says. “Tom, think we should nail that snitch like we did Gunderson?” Scott asks over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off me.

“Yeah,” Jankowski answers. “Bet he’d take it like a champ.”

I wince at the words, feel my guts knot.

“Whatsamatter?” Scott asks me. “You sorry you missed out on the fun the first time?” Then, louder, to Tom and Mike, “Maybe he wants Danny for himself.” Studblatz laughs like a hyena and Scott’s pleased with his joke. The three of them close around me. I take a step backward, my arms still out, like I’m setting up for a pass rush.

“Hell, you’re just jealous,” Scott taunts. “Studblatz, tell’em. Nothing better than popping fresh meat like Gunderson. Best way to keep ’em in line.”

“Gotta keep ’em in line,” Studblatz repeats.

“Whaddya think, Tommy? Think Kurt should try it?”

“Probably has already.”

“Awwww, lookit. Our big fullback’s crying like a little bitch.”

“Big, fuckin’ baby!”

“Worse than Gunderson when we shoved it up his ass.”

Tom’s chuckling. I’m having trouble keeping them in sight because everything’s starting to blur no matter how much I blink and wipe at my eyes. An old smell fills the air, smell of Crud Bucket’s sour breath in my face, threatening to kill me if I ever tell I caught him on top of Lamar. The smell of his sweat and breath and my fear—it’s all back here now, under my nose.

“Come on, Kurt. So we popped Gunderson’s cherry. Big deal,” Scott says. “We didn’t tell him to kill himself. That’s on him. I mean, that’s weak. Like that Darwin dude said, survival of the fittest, baby. Ain’t that right, Tommy?”

“Amen,” Jankowski answers with a grin. “Survival of the fittest, baby!”

“Shit, yeah,” Studblatz agrees. “Gunderson wanted it. Loved it. Know how I know? He never fought back. He cried but he barely struggled, never escaped. That’s how they act when they secretly want it.”

“Here’s the deal,” Scott says, raising his voice like he’s playing for an audience, setting up a punch line. “No one’s ever, ever gonna believe a fuckin’ word you say once we get done with you. Nope.” I bring an outstretched hand back to my face, quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, but they keep coming, keep streaming down my cheeks. “They’ll want to know how come the orphan killer is loose at Oregrove. Tom’s dad tried to warn Coach, but you’re still around and Ronnie Gunderson paid the price.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Studblatz says.

“I mean, everyone knows it takes a fuckin’ monster to fuck a kid with a broom,” Scott hisses. “And when they hear you sputter and blubber, big strings of drool coming out that fucked-up face ... sheeyit, boy. K-K-K-Kurt B-B-B-Brodsky ain’t gonna be such a hero anymore, is he?”

“Kiss your scholarship offers good-bye,” Jankowski adds.

“Yeah, fugly,” Studblatz says. “And when we get through with him, you can add that little faggot, Danny, to your victim list.”

“Go find your little friends,” Scott says, and then spits on the mats. “Go pretend you can save them. And tell ’em we’re waiting for ’em. Tell ’em we’ll get them alone, eventually, so they better learn how to man up and take it!”

“Hey, K-K-K-Kurt.” Tom juts his head forward. Spit flecks the corners of his mouth. “How come you’re not sssssssaying nothing? Cat got your tongue?”

Studblatz howls at the joke.

“Yuh-yuh-you suh-suh-suh-said it all,” I stutter, still backing up, never taking my eyes off them. When my shoulders bump up against the wall, I startle, then reach out for the door, pull it open, and hurriedly retreat through the locker room the same way Danny and Bruce left. Soon as I spin forward, I run out the building, past the parking lot and down Plymouth Lane. I keep running until I’m at least a half mile away from school, until I’m sure none of them are coming for me, until I can’t run no more. All alone, I bend over, hands on my knees, puking my guts out, my throat burning.

Only then do I press the stop button on my little digital recorder.