I’m standing at the top of the three steps that lead into the backyard. I look at Mars’s face and then down at his hand again. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this, hurt and bleeding. “Well, you better come in and get that cleaned up,” I say, pushing the screen door open a little wider to show what I mean.

Mars looks over at JR, but the dog still hasn’t moved from the patch of dirt in the corner of the fence. “He’s not going to chase you,” I say.

Mars edges up to one of the wooden fence posts and puts his good hand on it, his eyes on JR the whole time. He sort of bends his knees, and I realize he’s going to hop the fence.

“Dude, there’s a gate right there,” I say.

“Oh yeah,” he says.

He walks over and flips the latch up. He takes one more quick look back to confirm that he’s in the clear and steps into the yard and straight toward the back steps.

“Watch your step, there’s —”

“I know,” he says, cutting me off. “The grass is full of dog crap.”

Something about that statement seems wrong. Something about this whole thing seems wrong, but my mind is buzzing and I can’t quite place it.

“What did you do?” I say.

“I just …” he starts, but then he seems to think better of it.

“Yeah, you just what?” I say.

He looks at me but avoids my eyes. “I got bit, all right?”

There’s something he’s not telling me, something maybe I already know, but I don’t want to push things right now. I need to be cool about this, be extra nice.

“All right, all right,” I say, holding the door wide for him.

We have a pretty good stash of bandages and Bactine and all that stuff in the bathroom. I had more than my share of skateboard wipeouts and tree-climbing free falls when I was a kid, and Mom has kept the medicine cabinet stocked up ever since.

“Hold it over the sink,” I say, turning on the water.

He’s holding his hand like a claw, the fingers half curled, and he’s already bled on the floors of three different rooms, including this one. As he moves it another fat drop falls and disappears in the swirl of running water.

“OK,” I say, once I have the temperature about right.

He puts his hand under the faucet; the water turns red, then pink, then almost clear. I grab a wad of toilet paper and hand it to him.

“Let me see.”

He pulls the wet clump of paper away and for a second I see it clearly: two holes in the skin on the back of his hand, with some smaller red marks leading up to them. The holes are a little rough around the edges; tears might be a better word. That must be where the big canine teeth went in. And then, as I watch them, fresh blood pushes its way to the surface: two slick drops, expanding like tiny red balloons. Mars puts the balled-up paper back on his hand and I push through the cabinet, looking for something to cover that up with. Gauze, maybe, or two big bandages? I decide to go with all of the above.

“First things first,” I say, taking the small plastic bottle of antiseptic out.

“What’s that?” he says.

“You never used Bactine?” I say. That seems weird to me. Mars was at least as accident prone as I was. What did his parents put on his cuts and scrapes? I think about his parents. Cheap whiskey, probably.

“Nope,” he says.

“It cleans things up,” I say. “Prevents infection.”

“Oh crap!” he says, stiffening up. “What if I get rabies?”

“You’re not going to get rabies,” I say, and I squirt the Bactine on his hand.

“Aaaah!” he says, but he’s being a baby because Bactine doesn’t even sting that much.

“I’m just cleaning it up, man,” I say, handing him a fresh handful of paper.

I bandage him up and he leaves through the front door.

“Want to borrow an umbrella?” I say, one last attempt to make nice.

We both look up at the clouds. They’re definitely darker now than the last time we saw them, not fifteen minutes ago.

“Nah,” he says. “Just going straight home. I’ll make it.”

As he walks away, all the gauze and tape make him look like a burn victim. I should’ve only used two bandages, but I was trying to be extra helpful. Stupid, I think, but the damage has already been done. Boy, has it. Now he’s heading home to whichever one of his parents is currently unemployed — one of them always seems to be — looking like he was well and truly mauled.

Then I go out back to get Johnny. I open the door to the backyard and say, “Well, Air Jaws, you’ve done it this time.”

He looks up at me, but he still hasn’t moved from his corner. Calling him doesn’t work, so I head out there to get him. I keep my eyes glued to the tall grass, looking for land mines, but apart from that, I don’t really have a plan. I should have brought his leash, or maybe a biscuit. I feel a small raindrop hit my neck. A second later, another one lands on my wrist.

“Come on in before you get rained on,” I say. “No one likes that wet dog smell.”

I slow down as I get closer because I remember that JR doesn’t like to be cornered. I guess I’m remembering all that blood, too. I reach the edge of the bare spot near the post, and that’s where I see it. Just inches in front of where JR is crouched, there’s a fresh footprint in the dirt. In the middle of it, I can just make out the head, arm, and shoulders of a little man, a ball in his tiny hand: Air Jordan.

“That scumbag,” I say.

JR cocks his head at the sound of my voice. He’s the nearest one to me, and it’s definitely not his finest moment, but I don’t mean him. I mean the guy I just saw a few feet and one easily hoppable fence from where I’m standing. The scumbag I’m talking about is the one who jumped the fence and cornered my dog.

Through the screen door, I hear the phone start ringing. It mixes with the sound of the rain beginning to fall all around us.

“That’s not going to be good,” I say.

JR looks right at me. His wet brown eyes look almost black in the dim light. This time, I am talking to him.