MARCO STOOD PANTING at his door as his key twisted the lock open. Before he could get to the ice-cold Gatorade that was his reward for a ten-mile run, his phone dinged. He ignored it and cracked the bottle open. One purple sip in, and the phone dinged again. And again. And again. And again.

“What the hell, man?” he snapped.

He rushed to the counter, looked at the phone, and saw sixteen texts waiting. “Somebody die or something?” He half laughed before scrolling through the messages. Most were from his old high-school cross-country teammates.

Sure ur out on run but hit me up when u get in. Big news.

Yo M, where u at?

Check ur vm running man

Left u a msg and e-mailed u too M. Where tf u at? Holla back

Marco WTF man get back to me

Yoooooooooooo u hear about Kev?

Marco scrolled through more, furious now. What about Kev?

The answer came in the next text from his buddy Will.

Funeral is this Friday let me know if u r coming.

Funeral? Marco went through each text, and a clear picture emerged. His old cross-country captain and running buddy, Kevin Nicholas, was dead. Suicide was the rumor. He gulped a purple swig and made his way into his room.

Marco plopped onto his bed and stared, openmouthed, at a picture of him and Kevin in their team tank tops. They both thrust a number-one finger at the camera, Marco all smiles, hair tousled, sweat beaded on his forehead; Kevin stone-faced, no sweat, hair untouched as if he had gone for a walk in the park.

“Damn,” Marco muttered to the boy in the photo, “what happened, Kev?”

He drained the bottle and hurled it at the pillow on his bed.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuucccccccck!” he shouted. “I gotta get outta here.”

And just like that, Marco was back on the pavement, retracing his and Kev’s favorite running route. His usual quick, steady gait—the one that had earned him a state title and a full ride to St. John’s—was gone, replaced by herky-jerky stutter steps. The rhythmic breathing pattern that Kev used to tease him about—“Yo, you sound like a girl getting pounded”—was gone, replaced by staccato exhales.

Marco herky-jerked himself to the outskirts of the park, and just as he was ready to collapse on the nearest bench, Kevin’s voice rang in his ear: “Stop being a bitch and just keep running.”

Just keep running, Marco.

Past the church. Past Candy’s house. Past the Chinese food spot. Past the pizza spot. Past the pawnshop. Past the check-cashing spot.

“Hold up,” Kevin said one particular early-Monday-morning run.

He motioned Marco to an alley behind the pizza spot.

“Follow me.”

Kevin led the way down the alley, past the pizza spot, and behind the pawnshop. Marco followed in his footsteps. Kevin’s slow walk sped up to a light jog as he called out to Marco.

“You think you can outrun a bullet?”

“What?” Marco said.

“I said,” Kevin hissed, “you think you can outrun a bullet?”

As Kevin picked up his jog, Marco noticed someone approach the back entrance of the pawnshop. A guard with a black satchel in his hand and a gun on his hip banged on the metal door.

“Come on,” Kevin called.

He burst into a sprint, usually reserved for the final kick of a cross-country race. But this was different. Kevin’s sprint had purpose. He bolted toward the guard and smothered him as he reached for his holster. A knee to the groin dropped the stocky guard, and a left uppercut to the chin laid him on his back.

Kevin snatched the satchel and took off down the alley. Marco bolted after him. The squawk of a radio broke through the squish of their sneakers on the pavement. The boys left the pizza spot in the rearview and raced past the Chinese food spot next door.

KA-RACK! A bullet pinged off a Dumpster behind them.

Kevin darted left. Marco darted right. Another bullet whizzed behind them. Kevin clutched the satchel to his chest and kicked into second gear. Marco swiveled his head back at the guard, then did the same.

“What’s in the bag, Kev?”

“Just keep running!”

And they did. Past the shoe store. Past the Jamaican beef patty spot. Past the library. Past the market. Past Will’s house. Into the park. Up Slog Hill. So named because you had to slog through a path of waist-high weeds and crushed beer cans to sit on top of the rock overlooking the cemetery and the city in the distance.

The satchel dropped from Kev’s shoulder with a soft clang. The two hovered over the bag, panting quickly. Every few breaths, their breathing slowed until they were both silent.

“You almost got us killed back there!” Marco said.

“But I didn’t.”

Kevin stared at Marco, then dropped his eyes to the satchel. He ripped the zipper open and jammed his right hand inside. His eyes drifted up as if he were reaching into a grab bag. He pulled out an oily gray cloth, wrapped around something like a small gift. Then he peeled back the gray petals of the cloth, and a shimmer of silver peeked out. Like a child, Kevin snatched the cloth away and revealed a sleek, palm-sized, silver pistol. He palmed it and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it.

“Damn,” Kevin said. “I already got one of these in black. I was hoping for some Dirty Harry–type shit.”

“Wait, you already have a gun?”

“Actually, two,” Kevin said. He flipped open the chamber, gave it a spin, then flipped it shut. “The black one and a broke nine-millie.”

“So what do you need another one for?” Marco asked. “Especially a hot one.”

“What do you care?” Kevin said.

“Seeing as how I got shot at after you bum-rushed that guard, I very much care,” Marco said. “What do you need three guns for?”

“Two guns,” Kevin corrected him. “One’s broken.”

“What the hell you even need ONE gun for?”

“Protection.”

“Protection? This ain’t the Bronx. What you need protection from?”

Kevin looked through Marco.

“Myself.”

A grin crept across Kevin’s mouth, and he laughed it off.

“But seriously,” Kevin started, “the fifteenth is coming up, which means the check-cashing place will be hopping. So I was thinking . . .”

“You was thinking nothing,” Marco said. “I ain’t robbing nobody. Especially with a hot gun.” He hopped off the rock. “Man, how you sound?”

Kevin stared off into the distance at the cemetery. His eyes wandered southeast, where no headstones or crosses lay. But his father did.

“We gotta take this thing back,” Marco said. “Knock on the door and take off or something.”

“Naw, Running Man,” Kevin said, very cool. “That’s not how this is going down.” He hopped off the rock and thrust the gun at Marco’s eyes.

“Get that outta my face,” Marco said.

“Why?” Kevin inched in. “You scared?”

Marco turned his head left to ignore Kevin. And the gun.

“Come on, M,” Kev said, the grin reemerging, “I ain’t gonna shoot it. Trust me.”

Marco glanced back at him.

“You do trust me, don’t you?” Kev said.

Marco stared off to his right.

“Relax, Running Man.” Kev lowered the gun. “I haven’t done shit yet.”

“Yet?”

“You know what I mean. I got a plan.”

Marco listened to Kevin break down how he planned to take all three guns, walk into a police precinct, and turn them in for cash.

“Three guns’ll get you three-hunny. No questions,” Kevin said with a grin.

“And then what?”

Kev lifted the gun again and stepped toward Marco.

“You ask a lot of questions, Running Man.”

Marco’s hands flew into the air like he was about to get mugged. Kevin could make you feel that way.

“You really need to chill, M.” Kevin let out a sinister laugh. “I told you it ain’t loaded.”

Loaded or not, Marco hated the cold steel staring him down.

Kevin lowered the gun and leaned against the rock. “With three bills, I can get me a clean piece,” he said. “A four-five. One of them sleek silver-and-black joints.”

His eyes lit up like a kid detailing what he wanted most for Christmas.

Marco shook his head. “You still gonna hit the check-cashing spot?”

“You don’t even worry about that, Running Man,” Kevin said. He pushed off the rock and slung his arm, with the gun dangling, around Marco’s neck and pulled his ear close. “You just worry about keeping your mouth shut about all of this.”

The words echoed in Marco’s head as he picked up his pace in the park. The scent of stale beer assaulted his nose. Slog Hill was just around the curve. Cans crunched and crinkled as he panted his way through the tall weeds. He climbed onto the rocks, lay spread-eagled on his back, and stared at the summer clouds.

Marco hadn’t been on Slog Hill or this rock since he’d sat right there with Kevin, trying to talk him out of a robbery that was probably never gonna happen. Kevin, pulling one last bait and switch.

A slow exhale escaped Marco’s mouth. A deep breath filled his lungs and lifted his chest.

“Keep running, Kev.”