So you’d think that would be it, right? I was smart enough to get in my truck and drive away from Jimmy forever?

Hah. HAH.

After Cuppa Joy, I worked the ER, which hopped until after three Saturday morning. Two MVAs came in right after the bars closed. One was really bad because some fool had swerved around a deer. (First rule: Don’t swerve. Hit the stupid deer. Splatter its guts all over the damned road. Better you and your family walk away.) So then the fool lost control, zoomed across the median, and crashed head-on into a van. Of course, the fool was driving too fast because he and his wife were coming home from some party and they’d had a few drinks. And it goes without saying there were three little kids in the van. Of course, two died, the mom was probably paralyzed, and one kid got choppered down to the big hospital they got at Marshfield because her guts were all exploded.

I slept late the next day. Crawled out of bed at noon, took a shower, went downstairs still scrubbing my wet hair with a towel. The kitchen counters were lined with plastic tubs of ice water. Mom looked up from slicing celery sticks as I poured myself a mug of coffee.

“Bridge club tonight,” she explained. “Your father has a hankering for curry dip, and I want to try a new recipe for key lime bars. You send in your Common App yet?”

“Not yet.” I dumped milk, spooned sugar, and stirred.

“I see,” she said, plucking a radish out of a bag. She ran it under the tap, then sliced off the top and root before expertly carving a flower. After years of surgical nursing, my mom was pretty handy with knives. “Well,” she said, carefully, and dropped the radish into ice water, “when were you thinking of doing that, dear? Or have you decided not to go early action? Because, honestly, I’ve been reading that it’s better to get your application in early, so—”

“I’ll get it in,” I snapped. “I have homework.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she said.

“Sorry.” I washed my face with one hand. “I’m just tired.

” Like that, she went from freeze to warm and gushy. “Oh, honey, I know. I heard.”

My whole body tensed. What had she heard? Had someone from the coffeehouse … Had Pastor John or Mr. Lange…

Mom went to work on a fresh radish. “Your father said the accident was horrible. That poor family. He called while you were asleep and said to tell you that the little girl they took to Marshfield is going to live.”

“Oh.” I gulped from my mug. The coffee had been on the burner too long and tasted like toxic sludge. “Well, that’s good.”

For the next hour, I tried to concentrate on calculus, but it was hopeless. Then I decided, okay, time to get off my ass. So I went online and called up my Common App. Mom was right. All I had to do was press <send>. So what was I waiting for? Early action at Yale wasn’t binding. I could always change my mind, assuming I got in. Assuming they’d allow alleged sex maniacs into their school. Maybe it was better if I set my sights lower. Like, just do schools I was pretty much sure I’d get into and not try anything risky.

In the end, I did nothing other than close out the program and try to take a nap. Yet my mind wouldn’t shut down. I kept replaying what had happened in the coffeehouse in my head, like a video on an endless loop. It all came back to this: no matter what I said, everyone assumed that I’d done something to Jimmy—that we’d done something to each other, together. I still didn’t know, exactly, what Jimmy had told his parents. But I had a pretty good—pretty queasy, creepy-crawly—idea, even if all he admitted was that he’d told them how he felt.

And what did that mean, exactly? He’d never really said. An attraction? In love? Or just strange, funny, queer something he couldn’t put into words? Maybe he had a crush or something, and so he’d imagined something happening that day in the hayloft when nothing did.

“God.” I turned my face into my pillow. Thinking about that made me sick. Couldn’t people see, wouldn’t they know that feeling a certain way and doing something about the feeling were two completely different things? Why was I being treated like a criminal? I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t been anything but nice and responsible, a good neighbor. A stand-up guy. The only thing I was guilty of was caring about what happened to Jimmy.

And you touched him. That damn little voice. You touched him, you brushed his hair, you hugged him, you—

“Shut up,” I said, just to hear my own voice. So what was I supposed to do now? Jimmy sounded so desperate. I know you’ll find this unbelievable, but as angry as I was, I did feel sorry for him. He was counting on me to be the big brother he didn’t have anymore and I’d led him to believe he could. That I had to own, because I’d told him: you can count on me.

Yeah, but… I flopped onto my stomach and pulled the pillow down around my ears. There were limits. I was the one everyone ought to be apologizing to. Absolutely no way I was showing up at the coffeehouse tonight. With my luck, Pastor John would be waiting behind the dumpsters with a lynch mob. They were all in on it, watching Jimmy like a hawk, quick to assume that my appearance at the coffeehouse meant I was up to no good.

And even if I got away with it? If Jimmy and I made the hand-off, and then he got into this program? Was he really naïve enough to believe that his parents wouldn’t know I’d been involved, somehow?

Two hours later, I jolted awake, my sheets moist with drool and the hair on my forehead matted with sweat. My bedside clock said it was after four. I was due in the ER at eight. Stumbling out of bed, I dragged on my running clothes and headed out for a quick four-miler to clear my head. Then another shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand, letting it needle my shoulders, neck, and back as steam filled the stall and made the wallpaper bubble.

In my room, I shrugged into my black-on-black scrubs. My Angel of Death outfit, the ER nurses said, but since the hospital didn’t provide scrubs for volunteers, they couldn’t get too torqued about what colors I chose. Hair still damp, I quietly padded to the top of the stairs. The air was thick with the intense, meaty aroma of chili. In between the clatter of dishes and silverware in the kitchen, I heard the rise and fall of voices: my mom and dad, still getting ready for their bridge club.

Now was as good a chance as any. Tiptoeing into my parents’ room, I gently lifted the handset from the extension phone and dialed.

The ER manager was cool about the whole thing. “Of course you can take the night off. You’ve earned it. We were just talking about what kind of social life you could possibly have.”

Okay, what did that mean? Why were even they talking about me? But the only thing I said was, “So I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Enjoy yourself,” the manager said. “See you Sunday.”

Dad was grating cheese when I came downstairs. Mom looked up from spooning sour cream into a serving bowl and smiled. “Just in time,” she said. “I need your opinion about the chili.”

Dad grumped. “I told her it’s not spicy enough. Only good chili’s one that makes you break a sweat.”

The last thing I wanted was to sample chili, but appearances, appearances. Spicy cumin and cocoa-scented steam curled around my nose. Mom had used stew meat instead of hamburger, and the meat was juicy and fork-tender. The sauce tasted of roasted tomato that gave way to the bite of habanero and made sweat pearl on my upper lip. Really, the chili was fantastic. Under normal circumstances, I’d have asked for a bowl, but my stomach was doing flips.

“It’s great,” I said. “You’re going to kill them.”

“Well, that’s no good,” Mom fretted.

“Nothing a decent beer won’t cure,” Dad said. “On the other hand, you discombobulate ’em enough they can’t bid and make seven-no again, that’d be okay.”

Mom looked huffy. “That was not my fault.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, hoisting my backpack. Honestly, all this bridge babble made no sense to me anyway. “See you later.”

“Careful driving home from the ER,” Mom called after, and as the door closed on them, I heard her say to Dad, “And the next time I say two spades, that doesn’t mean you should jump to four…”

The air was laced with the musk of dead leaves and wood smoke. To the east, the sky was darkening to a deep cobalt blue. The first stars shone hard and bright alongside a hangnail of moon. The hospital was northeast, but I drove southwest, heading out of town and in the opposite direction from Cuppa Joy. I punched up random radio stations, but the music did nothing to settle my jumpiness. Eventually, I jabbed the radio silent. The dashboard clock said I had another forty-five minutes before I was supposed to meet Jimmy.

If I met Jimmy. I still hadn’t decided.

There were other cars on the road, but they thinned out as I took a two-lane country road toward Cedar Ridge, ten miles away. That gobbled up fifteen minutes. Outside Cedar Ridge I stopped at a 7-Eleven, bought some gas and a Slurpee, then drove aimlessly through Cedar Ridge, sucking on my drink which was too sweet and so cold it made my sinuses ache. On down the main drag and then south to a strip mall with a Target, Home Depot, Starbucks, and Burger King. I got out at the Burger King, used the bathroom, then got fries and a Whopper that I took back to my truck. I’d been hungry but couldn’t manage more than a few bites before my stomach knotted up again. The fries tasted like salty cardboard. Now that the sun was about gone, the truck was starting to get cold and I had to turn on the heater to warm up.

I shot a glance at my watch: 6:55. It would take me almost a half hour, maybe more, to make it back to the Cuppa Joy. If I went. Was I going? Really doing this? Well, maybe. Sort of. I would be late, so Jimmy would give up, go back inside, and the lot would be empty. I would cruise by once and then leave.

Well, I’m sorry, Jimmy. I could picture us talking, me plastering on an earnest expression. But I was driving around and then I got something to eat and by the time I got there, you must’ve already gone back in and, well, considering what happened with that pastor the last time … You understand.

Until that moment, that very last second, I really thought I was going to bail. Drive around, maybe show up at the ER after all. Or go home and say that the ER let me off early because there was nothing cooking and I was really wiped from the night before, blah, blah, blah. Snarf down a bowl of Mom’s chili and say hi to all my parents’ bridge club buddies and then go into the basement and flip aimlessly. Maybe goof around on the Internet. Or just go to sleep. I’d been so reliable for so long no one would think twice.

The shoulder on either side of Cuppa Joy was clogged with cars and motorcycles, so many that I couldn’t get a clear view of the back lot and dumpsters. The marquee said the Penitents were playing at seven and nine, so this must be the crowd for the first show. Just my luck. I did one drive-by, couldn’t see a thing, thought about bagging it and then decided, no, I’d come this far. Park the truck, walk back, see if Jimmy was still outside. He wouldn’t be. That’s what I told myself. He’d have given up for sure, and I was off the hook.

Full dark now, and cold. I shivered in my thin scrubs and black sweatshirt as I trudged toward the coffeehouse. I wished I’d thought to bring something warmer.

There was no one out front coming or going, though I could hear the band seeping through the walls. Maybe that’s why I didn’t catch the voices until I’d circled nearly all the way around back.

The first thing I heard was a short, angry rap. No words, really, just the impression of a voice. A guy? A girl? I couldn’t tell. This was followed by the kind of staccato up and down you hear when someone’s really pissed.

Oh boy. I stopped dead, heart knocking against my ribs. Someone had wandered out back and found Jimmy, I bet. No way I was getting caught. For a second, I contemplated the merits of a quickly executed about-face and sprint back to my truck, but there was something in the tone of those voices that made me hesitate. They sounded … were they arguing? I couldn’t be sure.

Then I heard Jimmy, very clearly: “No!”

That wasn’t good. He sounded freaked. I’d already flattened myself against the building’s cold stone. The lone streetlight at the other end of the lot provided the only illumination. Holding my breath, I peered around the corner.

Jimmy stood halfway across the lot in a wedge of shadow. I recognized the ghostly blur of his apron and T-shirt. He wasn’t alone. His back was against the passenger’s door of an aging Taurus wagon—and there was someone with him.

“No,” I heard him say again, but whoever it was—and I couldn’t tell if it was a girl or guy because the light was so bad—said something else. A thin razor of light cut the shadows around their faces, just enough for me to catch the barest details of a profile: the angle of a jaw, a hank of hair. Then the light was blotted out as the figure in black pressed close, and then closer.

Against Jimmy.

Jesus. My throat squeezed shut. Was Jimmy … Were they… Christ. My eyes jumped away. I didn’t need to see this. I felt dizzy and sick.

And—yes—angry. Because what the hell, what the hell?

But then I thought, Wait. It’s cold. Who’s gonna do anything like that when it’s minus ten? They might be just talking, the other guy leaning in so they’re not shouting.

I wasn’t sure, though. Because the way they looked, they might be … God, I didn’t want to even think about it.

Then my ears pricked at a new sound, this very faint metallic squall. I peeked again just in time to see Jimmy dragging open the Taurus’s passenger-side door. The other person was circling around to the driver’s side. The dome light flicked on for just a second, enough time for me to catch the peak of a black hood, before cutting out. The engine cranked, coughed; the headlights and tails flared, and I saw that a chunk of red plastic was missing from the left taillight. The car began to roll out of the lot. Not hurrying. No squeal of tires.

They were leaving. Jimmy had gotten his ride after all, I guess. When I didn’t show, that must be what had happened. Someone else came out, caught Jimmy out back. Jimmy was forced to explain. They’d gotten into an argument, but then the other guy agreed to drive Jimmy … to drive Jimmy … My brain hitched. To drive Jimmy where?

Jimmy hadn’t sounded right. You don’t say no like that unless … Jesus. Unless what? And now someone was taking him someplace. Jimmy hadn’t struggled; he’d gotten into that car. But something wasn’t right.

He said no. I quickly trotted back the way I’d come, retracing my steps in just enough time to see the car turn right and head west. I heard him say no.

Yeah, but so what? This wasn’t my problem. This had nothing to do with me. Jimmy and Black Hoodie were going somewhere. They’d been doing… starting… something. Honestly, I didn’t want to know.

But why had Jimmy said no? Had he been afraid? Or were they only arguing? That had to be it. Jimmy had climbed into that car. No one forced him; there was no gun to his head. I was late, he got tired of waiting. But where was he going? He’d sounded … weird. Scared? So he might be in trouble, gotten himself in deeper than he even knew.

Even if that were true, what was I supposed to do about it? I could tell someone, but I wasn’t sure what I could say: Well, Jimmy got in this car with this guy and maybe they’d been making out, I don’t know … Oh, what was I doing? Well, uhm, I was meeting Jimmy … No, no, nothing like that, he wanted me to take some stuff to get copied and then mailed because his parents weren’t supposed to know.

Oh, yeah, that would really fly.

All this sparrowed through my mind in maybe five seconds, long enough for me to sprint to my truck, an idea already half-formed in my mind. Down the road I could make out the faint fiery glitter of that car’s taillights. I knew these roads and the countryside pretty well, having either driven or run them for years. Southwest was Cedar Ridge, where I’d been. Directly west lay a state park, a whole lot of country, a couple farms, and then Hopkins, twenty-five miles away. There was a Kinko’s in Hopkins, open twenty-four hours. Jimmy needed stuff copied, printed out, and sent. So maybe they were headed there. That would make sense. Sort of.

And this was out of my hands, wasn’t it? I wasn’t Jimmy’s keeper. I wasn’t his brother. I was just a kid who’d tried to help—and look where that had gotten me. Better I should just go home. Right?

Right?

Following a car is actually a lot easier than you imagine. Who thinks to worry about getting tailed in rural Wisconsin? In the countryside around Merit, you can see forever where the land’s not covered by forest.

I was able to keep a good distance between me and the Taurus, which was easy to spot because of that broken taillight. Ten miles out, a deer bolted across the road left to right, but I was going slow and a tap of the brakes was enough to bring the truck to a crawl. I waited for the other deer, surely following, to take their turns, because everyone knows: there are always more deer. Sure enough, three seconds later, a doe galloped across. I spotted four more in a clutch off the left shoulder, just waiting for their chance, drawing straws to see who got to try to make me crash.

By the time all the deer bolted across, the Taurus had pulled ahead. I was nervous about more deer, though, so I didn’t speed up too much. The last thing I needed was an accident I couldn’t explain. Eventually, I caught a firefly flicker as the Taurus braked and then hung a right. I knew what was out there: Cachemequon Lake State Park, spreading north and west. It was only a couple trails around the lake, picnic grounds, one platform shelter for big groups, and restrooms. No overnight camping, so the park would be empty. I also knew that the road was gated off at the entrance so anyone coming after dark would have to park and go the rest of the way on foot.

Wherever that guy was taking Jimmy, it was most definitely not Kinko’s. Still, I rolled past the access road and kept going. Went on another two miles, fretting, then pulled onto the shoulder to think.

Clearly, Jimmy and his mystery friend weren’t in such a hurry to get to Hopkins. Jimmy and his friend were going to a closed park. So, what if the person with Jimmy was … and they were…

You know.

Look, just because I didn’t have a girlfriend didn’t mean I was completely clueless here. I knew what happened in parked cars, regardless of what it … if it was a girl or a guy, I mean. Because Black Hoodie could be a girl, right? Sure.

And maybe I’d misinterpreted how Jimmy had sounded. Maybe he wasn’t saying No, don’t do that, but No … don’t do that here.

“Jesus.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. I could feel the thump of a headache behind my eyes. This was none of my business. What was I going to do, creep up on the Taurus and offer condoms? If I cared so much, I should’ve said something in the parking lot. I should’ve been on time and helped Jimmy. Then Jimmy would’ve gone back to work and no one would be the wiser.

Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda. You know the drill.

I should have done and said so many things. Instead, I was driving a lonely country road in the dark, wondering if maybe Jimmy needed help dealing with his girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or whatever.

I almost went home. I actually reached for the ignition key twice but didn’t turn it because here’s the thing that hitched me up, made me think: Pastor John and all those eyes on Jimmy at Cuppa Joy. I remembered how cowed Jimmy was the night before. His desperation had been palpable. He was so freaked out by the idea that his father would find out what he was up to that he didn’t dare go to the post office, for crying out loud. His dad was monitoring his computer. So this same kid is going to get into a car, willingly, and let himself be driven twenty miles outside town to go make out? When he should be working? There was something really wrong with the whole freaking scenario.

“You’re nuts,” I said as I cranked the steering wheel and got my truck turned around. “And this is not going to end well, Benny Boy. You just wait and see.”

The woods closed in as soon as I turned off the main road and started winding along the approach road to the park’s front gate. The woods were blacker than pitch. Maybe half a mile in, my headlights swept over a panel van off the left shoulder, and I slowed, then hit my high beams. In the sudden flare of silver-blue light I saw that there was no one in the front seat. An orange tag drooped from the antennae. Just a broken-down van waiting for a tow.

The trees pulled apart as I reached the park entrance. My lights cut across the Taurus nosed to the right of the main gate. Nothing happened as I rolled up. No startled, bleached faces darted out of sight, and the windows were clear. As in not fogged up. I didn’t know if this was good or bad, but I do remember the distinct feeling of not being relieved. If anything, I would rather have come on Jimmy making out with someone, anyone. Then I could’ve hightailed it out of there.

Instead, I killed the engine. Listened to the soft tick of the muffler. Thought, Okay, now what? If Jimmy and his friend were headed anywhere, it would probably be the shelter. There were lights there, tables. I knew the way; I’d come running out here a couple times before.

But was I really going in after Jimmy? What could possibly motivate me to do something so stupid?

Here’s what finally got me off my ass: the cold. It wasn’t freezing out, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Now, maybe Jimmy’s mystery friend had blankets, but I kept remembering how startled and upset Jimmy had sounded. So, all I would do was take a quick peek, long enough to make sure Jimmy wasn’t in trouble, and then I’d get out of there.

Padding down a trail of trampled dirt. My ears tingling in the silence. The night was too cold for insects and frogs, and only the lightest of breezes stirred the bare branches and fingered my hair. The shelter was about a quarter mile in. Somewhere, an owl hooted, and a few seconds after that a second answered and they kept on, tossing calls back and forth as I moved down the trail. After ten minutes of creeping along without a flashlight, I sensed the woods opening up. Maybe a hundred feet further on, I caught the silver-blue sparkle of a flashlight and knew I must be close. I crept to the edge of the trail, keeping well back of the mouth and out of sight.

Ahead, I saw the shelter: a peaked roof and wooden supports over picnic tables on a concrete slab and open on all sides. The flashlight I’d glimpsed lay on a table. Leaning against the table, in profile, were two people—and one was Jimmy. I still couldn’t tell who the other person was; his or her back was to me and so there was only that black sweatshirt.

A sweatshirt.

A black hoodie.

No. Was it, could it be Pastor John? No, that was nuts. I was wearing a black sweatshirt, for chrissakes. Besides, it might not be a he at all. I just couldn’t tell.

All I knew for sure was that this second person’s hands were all over Jimmy. Maybe Jimmy was struggling, but I couldn’t be sure about that either. His apron was gone, and the second person was fumbling at Jimmy’s waist and then …

Oh, Jesus. Not struggling.

Kissing.

They were kissing, mouths working, jaws pumping, and—

No. The sight knocked the wind out of my lungs; I couldn’t breathe; my mind felt like it was melting. God, no. I didn’t want to see this. I might have taken a step back, but I don’t know. I do remember thinking how dirty I felt, and the next I knew, my glasses were in one shaking hand. I couldn’t be seeing this.

High above, the owls called to one another: whoo, who-whoo, whoo. Owls were bad-luck birds, death birds, and I had to get out here, fast; get as far away from this place as I could and never see or think about Jimmy ever again. What an idiot, I’d been so stupid.

The next thing that came to my ears was not the mournful cry of an owl or a groan or anything you might think, given what was going on over there. What I heard was a shout: a ululation so wild and strange, almost a scream—and that sound was wrong, it was so wrong that my heart jammed up against my teeth.

Jimmy! Gasping, I looked, my eyes snapping back just in time.

Two figures rushed from the dark woods ringing the shelter. I couldn’t see them properly; I still held my glasses in one hand. So all I know for sure—the only thing I could be certain about—was they wore black, and as they moved under the shelter’s lights, I caught a flash of yellow hair. One, I thought, had a rock. A rock. I don’t know how big it was. Bigger than my fist, I think, but the rock was wavery and out-of-focus and I was far away and so stunned, my mind was still catching up to what I thought I saw when I realized something else.

The second person was clutching a stone in one hand and a hatchet in the other.

And they went straight for Jimmy.

Jimmy’s head, all an amorphous blur, whipped around. He screamed, but then the others were there. The blond swung. There was a sodden thunk, like the sound of my mother’s cleaver chopping raw roast.

Like that, Jimmy’s shriek cut out. A thick gout of black blood spumed in an oily geyser, and Jimmy went down.

And then I was scuttling away like a crab, one hand clapped to stopper the scream pushing against my teeth, my eyes wide and staring, bulging from the skin of their sockets. My heel hooked a root, and I toppled back. My elbows jammed rock; a searing sensation of pins and needles raced down both arms. My glasses jumped from my hand, but I was too paralyzed to move, much less search for them. I just lay there, my breath whistling in and out of my nose.

And I heard it all, every second: the attackers’ grunts. The thud of stone against bone, a sound that went wet and mucky. The dull chop of metal on … something: wood. Concrete. Meat. And, finally, a long, lowing moan that went on and on and on.

Oh God. I couldn’t be hearing this; I couldn’t be here! Frantic, I stirred the earth with my hands until I found my glasses only a foot away. Jamming them on, I staggered upright, clawing air.

And then I ran.

Christ.

I ran.