The boy bolted again. Seeing Robbie coming, he turned and sprinted for the parking lot, long legs churning, blue flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the asphalt.

“Dad, see you at home!” Robbie yelled over his shoulder.

Even with his stubby SpongeBob build, Robbie considered himself a pretty fast runner. But it soon became obvious he couldn’t catch the one-armed boy—at least not without a rocket pack strapped to his back.

If I can just keep him in sight, Robbie thought, maybe I’ll find out where he lives. Or maybe he’ll get tired and stop running.

Robbie chased the boy down the long, winding road that led to Eddie Murray Field, then down another road and up a hill. Most of the time the boy was a good two hundred yards ahead, looking back occasionally to see if Robbie was still there. As they neared the top of the hill, Robbie started to catch up. The kid was definitely tiring now. Which was a good thing, since Robbie’s lungs were burning and his side was beginning to cramp.

Still, it wasn’t until they had run another quarter mile, past office buildings and an empty field, that the boy finally staggered to a stop.

“Okay…you…got…me!” he said, gasping for breath. “What do you want?”

Robbie was so exhausted he wasn’t sure. He was bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

“I…guess I just want to talk,” he said.

The boy nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. “Okay, go ahead. Talk.”

“What’s your name?” Robbie asked.

“They call me Lefty.” The boy gazed at the dangling sleeve of his T-shirt, where his right arm should have been. Seeing the horrified look on Robbie’s face, he said, “Relax! I’m kidding! It’s Ben. Ben Landrum.”

He threw himself down on a patch of grass and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask me.”

Robbie looked at him quizzically.

“Ask what happened to my arm!” the boy said, looking annoyed. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“Okay,” Robbie said. “What happened to your arm?”

“Shark chewed it off. Swallowed the whole thing. In one giant bite.”

Robbie’s jaw dropped.

“Nah, just messing with you,” Ben said. “The real story’s kind of boring. So I come up with what my therapist calls ‘alternative narrations’ that are more exciting. Told one kid I lost the arm in a sword fight.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Jerk actually believed it, too.”

Ben watched a few cars go by and seemed lost in thought. “Thing is,” he continued, “I’ve told so many different stories I can’t keep track of them all. I forget which story I’ve told to which person.”

“I want the real story,” Robbie said. He waved at the big hill they had just run up. “You owe it to me. Look how far you made me run.”

Ben managed a weak grin. “Okay,” he said. “You want to hear the whole thing? Or the CliffsNotes version?”

“I’m in no hurry,” Robbie said, plopping down beside him.

Ben shrugged. “Like I said, it’s not very exciting,” he said. “I had a dirt bike. Bought it off a friend who’d stopped riding. My mom didn’t want me to get it—she said it was too dangerous. But I didn’t listen. I had this money my grandma gave me. And I cried and whined and pleaded until my mom said, ‘Fine, go get the stupid bike!’ Just to shut me up.”

Robbie nodded. Been there, done that with the whining and pleading to parents, he thought.

“At first I just rode near my house,” Ben continued. “My mom wouldn’t let me ride anywhere else. But she’s always at work, so pretty soon I started riding wherever I wanted.

“Then these older kids told me about some trails deep in the woods. I never should’ve gone with them. But I did, one day right after school. The trails were crazy steep and winding. The other kids were all better riders than me, way more experienced. I never should’ve…”

He took a deep breath and said, “Okay, now we’re getting to the good part—if you want to call it that. It happened on our first run. I was going too fast. I hit a bump and flew way up in the air. The bike came down on my arm. The metal practically tore through the whole thing. Two of the kids freaked out and just ran off. One went for help. But we were deep in the woods. It took a long time for the paramedics to get there. Forever, it seemed.”

Robbie shuddered at the thought of Ben being in such horrible pain for so long.

“I woke up in the hospital, and my mom was leaning over the bed, crying. There were two doctors in the room. She told me my arm had been cut real bad. A lot of nerves and tendons were severed. She said they were taking me into surgery and there was a chance the arm would have to be amputated.”

He stared at the empty sleeve of his T-shirt again. “When I woke up, it was gone. That’s it. End of story. Pretty boring, huh?”

Ben seemed to be studying him now, waiting for his reaction. But Robbie didn’t know what to say. He looked away for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

“When did it happen?” he asked finally.

“Let’s see…sixteen months, fourteen days, and—what time is it, around five o’clock?—two hours ago,” Ben said. “Not that I’ve been keeping track.”

A cool breeze was rippling through the field now, and he closed his eyes and held his face to the sun. “Know what the hardest part is?” he said. “It’s not what you might think. It’s not tying your shoes, or buttoning your shirt, or cutting a steak. It’s…being different. Having people stare at you all the time. Hearing the same questions. It makes you crazy.”

He shook his head. “That’s why I ran. I knew what you wanted.”

“No, it’s not about that,” Robbie said. “It’s just…you made that great catch. At our practice.”

Ben nodded and smiled. “Liked that one, huh? Yeah, the one-armed dude came through. That little kid in the stroller, he might’ve had Rawlings tattooed on his forehead.”

Robbie nodded. “But why were you even watching us? We’re, like, the worst team that’s ever played.”

“I was going to the pool,” Ben said. “You want to see people stare? Try being a one-armed kid and going swimming. But then I saw you guys practicing. Baseball is my all-time favorite sport. Played it for years until…” He lifted his right shoulder. “This.”

A wistful look crossed his face. “Then I found out your games are at that field down the road,” he continued, “so I came over today to watch.”

“Your missing arm,” Robbie said. “No offense, but were you a righty or—?”

“No, I was a lefty before the accident,” he said. “That was about the only good luck I had. Didn’t have to learn to write and throw all over again.”

In his mind, Robbie replayed the terrific catch Ben had made the other day: the quick, loping strides to get to the ball, the ease with which he had hauled it in, the fancy flip to Jordy at the end.

How many other kids could make a play like that?

“You’ll play ball again!” Robbie blurted, more forcefully than he’d intended. “I know you will!”

Ben smiled wearily. “That’s what my mom says, too.”

“We have another practice Thursday,” Robbie said. “Four o’clock. Same field as the other day. You should come.”

Ben stared at him for a moment, then climbed to his feet. “I have to go,” he said. Without another word, he turned and began running back down the hill.

“Hey!” Robbie yelled. “Where do you live? Where do you go to school?”

The one-armed boy waved, but he didn’t stop.

Soon he went around a bend and disappeared.