Tonight Zig conjures up holy mackerel clouds so thick they hide the honey moon that should rightly be Thelma’s and Peter Peter’s on the eve of their marriage. Yet perhaps a dark, menacing sky is more fitting under the circumstances. After all, no one in our little group (the newlyweds, Esther, and me) is in the mood to celebrate as we bike to the Marcy, guided only by the light of the streetlamps.

Despite the darkness, Thelma insists I wear a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up so that I am less recognizable. She does not want townies badgering me tonight with nosy questions or tactless comments. I also wear overalls, which I chose because they have big pockets to conceal a little revolver.

As the four of us near the Marcy, my holey heart twinges, my intestines knot, and my stomach somersaults. In spite of the late hour, dozens of townies are zooming down the road in the direction of the gymnasium. Those opposed to the redeath penalty are holding a redie-in during which participants will writhe on the ground and scream in feigned agony to protest the bricking. Meanwhile, those foes of Johnny’s who cannot stomach the idea of actually wielding bricks will demonstrate outside the Marcy with their usual slogans and placards. As we approach, I spot a gommer carrying a placard that reads, THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US.

The two groups are gathering at opposite ends of the Marcy’s lit softball field. It would be thoughtful of me to go thank the hundreds of opponents of the bricking, but Thelma disagrees. She fears my presence on the field might trigger a scuffle between the opposing camps, so we ride past both groups and park our bicycles in the Marcy’s circular driveway next to a hedge of evergreens—each bush trimmed, regrettably, in the shape of a bullet.

Johnny Henzel is already inside. This morning, he was transferred here, tied again to a stretcher. I wonder if his jailers are detaining him in the janitor’s office in the bowels of the building. If so, has he thought fondly of the time he spent in that room with me?

The three hundred brickers are also already inside the Marcy. At the door to the sports center stands a line of jailers, burly pubescent boys in purple armbands who will allow inside only those townies whose names appear on official lists. Those lists are in the possession of Tim and Tom Lu. The twins have donned T-shirts decorated with the zodiac symbol for Gemini.

Tom says, “Overalls and a hooded sweatshirt. That’s not a very attractive look, is it, Tim?”

I lower my hood.

“It’s the murder victim, Tom. And now he’s also a fashion victim.”

“Poor, poor boy,” Tom replies. “He’ll never recover from the strain he’s been under.”

“Mark my words,” Tim says. “He’ll end up at the Deborah.”

“Shut your traps!” Thelma cries, a hand raised in the air. “Or I’ll smack your faces so hard you’ll be looking backward.”

“My, that sounds like a threat,” says Tom.

“Oh, what a violent world we live in,” says Tim.

“In the end, we are all truly victims,” says Tom.

Thelma narrows her eyes at the boys, and they finally pipe down. Since the names of my traveling companions are not on the official lists, Esther, Thelma, and Peter Peter must now bid me good-bye and go join the bricking opponents on the softball field, where they, too, will squirm on the ground in mock death throes as part of the redie-in.

Thelma cups my cheeks in her palms the way you used to, Mother. She says, “Mama has faith in you, child.”

Old boy Peter Peter says, “Whatever you do, son, you’ll do us proud.” He ruffles my hair the way you used to, Father.

Esther pulls me aside and gives me an almost embarrassed look. Her cheeks are flushed. Finally, she says, “Give Johnny my love, okay?” Then, because I am still averse to hugs, she gives me a light kick in the shins, what she calls a “love tap.” I return the kick. Then Peter Peter and Thelma join in, and under the puzzled gaze of the evil twins and the jailers, my friends and I stand at the entrance to the gymnasium kicking one another.

When I finally pull myself away from my makeshift family and walk into the Marcy, I have the curious feeling—call it a sixth sense—that I am off to meet my maker.