Adam had never opened up such a big lead. When he glanced over his shoulder at the other runners, they were so far back, he had to admit that he almost felt sorry for their sad, little turtle legs. But still he picked up his pace to make a point. Glancing that way again, he saw that they were gone. Victory was sweet; total victory, totally sweet. But wait. If this was total victory, what was that uneasy feeling creeping over him? Was he really that far in front? Or had he taken a wrong turn and gotten lost again? Please, anything but that. As he reviewed the race in his mind, he realized that it wasn’t so much a question of being lost, as — wasn’t there something he had to do? He definitely had a nagging, squirmy feeling, then worse, an unmistakable ache, a sense that there was very urgent business to attend to.

Pee! He had to pee! He opened his eyes. The bedroom was dark. Of course it was. Those six glasses of water before bed — the Adam Canfield 100 percent foolproof wake-up system. It had worked! He raced to the window. Snow! Beautiful snow, lots of it. The street, the bushes, the sidewalks, and cars were all covered in a thick coat of frosty, white, unspoiled snow, and it was still coming down heavily. No way there’d be school on Friday. Adam was beaming. And chilled. He rushed to the bathroom, rushed back to bed, buried himself under the covers, thrust both hands into his boxers, and curled into a ball. Lying there, he tried to get himself back to that lead in the running club race.

But in the morning, there were no new dreams to remember.

Adam shoveled his own walk and driveway quickly, then went looking for jobs. He was in high spirits. The snow was good for shoveling: wet enough so it didn’t blow off the shovel but not too wet — it wouldn’t just melt away. Usually, the Tri-River Region got only two or three big storms a winter, so Adam wanted to get as many jobs as possible. On his best day of shoveling ever, he had made two hundred dollars.

First up was the house across the street. They wanted Adam to shovel whenever it snowed. He didn’t even have to ring the bell, and later they’d leave the thirty dollars in his mailbox. Older people like them didn’t want to do anything to aggravate their clogged arteries, so they were happy to pay. Some other customers were weird, though. The next woman stood outside watching Adam the whole time. She wanted only half her driveway cleared — said she had just one car. And she wanted her walk done just one shovel wide. She supervised every shovelful, as if Adam were going to steal her snow. He finished fast, but all she paid was ten dollars.

He walked down the center of the street, between the high banks that the snowplows had made, to where the block dead-ended at the Tremble River, then headed along the back path. To get a look at the river, he climbed a bluff, barreling upward through the undisturbed snow. He loved stepping in unstepped-in snow and then tumbling back down.

He brushed off, then placed the shovel over his shoulder and marched up the next street. It was getting colder and windier. The wet snow would soon ice over, making the shoveling harder. Adam might be forced to charge double.

He did a big house that took almost an hour for thirty dollars, then decided it was break time. He wanted to play. The boardwalks over the bluffs leading down to the river would be getting icy by now, good sledding conditions. He’d go home, tank up on hot chocolate, then hit the boards.

“Little boy! Little boy!”

Adam looked around. A front door was open just wide enough for a very old lady to stick out her head. Her hair and skin were so white, he could barely make out her face against the snow.

“Little boy, are you looking for shoveling work?”

“Actually,” said Adam, “I’m quitting.”

“Good,” said the old lady. “I like a boy who never quits. You’ll do my house?”

Adam tried again but could see this was hopeless. The lady had to be deaf as a post. In a loud voice, he said he’d been shoveling for hours and was FINISHED and she told him how much she’d loved visiting Helsinki.

He surveyed the driveway and walk. Not even a footprint. He felt like running away. But what if she couldn’t get out to go to the supermarket? What if she starved to death? It would be all his fault.

“Delighted to meet you,” the old lady said. “What’s your name?”

“ADAM,” he shouted. It felt good to scream at her.

“Benjamin?” she said. “That’s my son’s name, too. You remind me of him. He lives in New York. He’s sixty-four.”

Adam smiled weakly and started shoveling out the end of the driveway, where big chunks of snow had been piled high by the street plows. He was trying to think pleasant thoughts, and there were plenty, considering all he’d missed with school being canceled. No math chapter test. No baritone horn lesson. No before-school/after-school voluntary/mandatory test-prep class for the state exams. No Quiz Bowl Gladiator meet — he wondered if they’d make it up or cancel it. He didn’t even mind missing basketball practice. The one nice thing about being the most overprogrammed middle-school kid in America was that doing nothing felt like a special treat. Even shoveling snow seemed enjoyable.

No way Adam was checking his e-mail when he got home. He knew there’d be at least ten messages from Jennifer, about stuff they had to do for the next issue of the Slash, Harris Elementary/Middle School’s student newspaper. They had planned a big story meeting that afternoon for the February issue — right about now, actually. Jennifer was so hard-core, she’d probably schedule a makeup meeting at her house tonight. Sorry, Jennifer. Could he help it if his e-mail was down?

He heard something and looked up. He hadn’t noticed, but an SUV had stopped nearby and some big kids were hopping out and coming toward him.

One said something. Adam didn’t hear the whole comment, but it sounded like they were trying to ask about shoveling jobs. He wished they’d come twenty minutes earlier; he gladly would have given them this job.

“Making much?” one said.

Adam nodded. “Lot of snow,” he said.

“Give me your money,” the kid said.

“I know that kid,” another boy said.

Adam looked at the second boy, who was smaller. Why did they want his money? That was weird. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement — an arm? — and there was a sharp flash of pain in the middle of his face. He felt dizzy, then nauseous. His breath smelled sour and he gagged. He didn’t want to throw up in front of these kids.

His sweatshirt hood was yanked over his head, and someone had him in a bear hug from behind and was going through his pockets. They shoved him into a snowbank. Car doors slammed. By the time he got to his feet, the dark SUV was at the end of the street.

Adam was supposed to go around back and leave his wet stuff by the furnace, but he walked in the front door. His mother opened her mouth, then stopped. “What happened?” she asked.

“You need to call someone,” Adam said, “to finish shoveling on Marlboro Street. An old lady could die of starvation.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Adam. “A kid hit me.”

“Hit you?” said his mother. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Adam. “I didn’t do anything to them. They took my money.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “You’ve been mugged.”

Mugged, Adam thought. He hadn’t been mugged. They just hit him and took his money. His mom got a washcloth and cleaned his face. She kept asking questions, then went into the kitchen. She was calling the police? It was only forty dollars, not some big deal.

Within ten minutes three police cars had arrived. “The benefit of living in a suburb where nothing ever happens,” said his mom as she watched them come up the walk. Six officers filled the Canfields’ living room. They looked huge to Adam. Each had a gun strapped in a holster. His mother talked to them, then they wanted to ask Adam questions.

He told them what he remembered and one wrote it down on some kind of report sheet. Adam felt like he was watching this happen to somebody else. They kept asking the same questions. He wasn’t sure how many boys there were, he told them, but more than two. He wasn’t sure how old; they looked like high school. The police asked him to describe the car.

“SUV,” said Adam. “Like a Ford Explorer. Like, black.”

“Sure it was an Explorer?” the officer asked. “Not a Tahoe? They’re pretty close.”

Adam wasn’t sure.

“So a black SUV the size of an Explorer?” said the cop who was filling out the report. “Not navy blue or midnight charcoal, right?”

“I’m not sure,” said Adam. “A dark color, though.”

“You didn’t get the license plate?”

He thought he remembered AK3 something, something, something, 5.

The police kept asking if there was any bad blood with these kids from school. “Tell me again,” said one. “What did they say?”

“Almost nothing,” said Adam. “Just give them the money. And one kid said he knew me.”

“OK,” said the cop, looking up from the paper and staring directly at Adam. “And did you know him?”

“Yeah,” said Adam. “Kenny Gilbert. I don’t really know him, but I know who he is. I played soccer with him a few years ago in the Tremble Rec league. He was older. It was my first year. He played A line; I was on B. I play A now.”

“You sure?” said the cop.

“Oh yeah,” said Adam. “I’m one of the best now; I always play A line.”

“That it was this Kenny Gilbert?” said the cop.

Adam nodded.

His mother found the skinny phone book that had listings for their town. “There are two Gilberts,” she said, handing the book to an officer. He studied the names, and asked to borrow the book; then all the cops left.

Within thirty minutes one car was back. The police said they had the kid and needed Adam to make an ID.

Adam and his mother rode in the backseat of the police car. What Adam remembered most — besides his mom holding his hand the whole way — was that you couldn’t open the doors or roll down the windows from the patrol car’s backseat.

They drove a few miles, then turned onto a side street. The houses looked normal — not rich, not poor. Up ahead, he saw two police cars double-parked in the center of the block. The car Adam was in stopped one house before them.

The policeman driving Adam did not turn off the engine. He did not ask Adam to get out. “They’re going to walk this kid to the sidewalk and have him stand there. I want you to look at him real good and make sure it’s him. He doesn’t know you’re ID’ing him, and he won’t be able to see you from here. He’ll be looking straight ahead.”

Adam waited. The front door of the house opened, and a detective in a navy-blue Windbreaker with TREMBLE POLICE in big yellow letters on the back came out, a boy standing beside him. A woman stayed behind, at the front door — probably the kid’s mom — and while she waited, Adam noticed that she checked the mailbox.

The boy reached the sidewalk and stopped, standing kind of slouchy. People in nearby houses peeked out from behind curtains and blinds.

The police officer turned to Adam in the backseat. “That him?” the officer asked.

Adam nodded.

“You sure, kid?”

“Sure,” said Adam.

The officer picked up a handheld radio, pressed a button, and said, “We have a confirmation from the victim.”