Whacked the gun out of his stomach, pushed Noam away. Noam fell on his rear.

The gun was hurled into the air.

The clunk of something falling.

Noam looked up. Hersh and the man were fighting, each one trying to get control of the other.

But Noam’s own body free.

Free!

Grunts and moans came from the men.

What to do? Noam thought quickly.

Run. Run!

Noam felt sudden energy injected into his legs. He bolted ten feet and ducked behind a Dumpster stinking of rot. He peeked over the side.

The man and Hersh were still fighting. Blood over their faces. Hands moving so fast, like they were fighting in a cartoon.

The man was screaming something about a setup.

He had Hersh in a headlock.

Squeezing Hersh’s neck.

Noam ran another ten feet, his breaths choppy and shallow.

Run!

Another few feet. Then he forced himself to look back.

Hersh’s eyes bulging out. His cheeks like balloons. His lips as puffy as marshmallow. His nails digging into his attacker’s arm. Drawing blood. But the man still had him trapped.

Trapped.

Run! Noam thought.

RUN!

Noam looked to his right, to his left. Behind him, in front of him.

No one.

RUN!

Harder, harder, the man squeezed. Hersh squeaking out sounds.

A glint of something metallic caught his eye.

The gun.

Noam had forgotten about the gun.

Hersh trying to free his neck—grunting, squealing. His nails carving deep, bloody lines in the man’s muscle.

Run!

Hersh’s legs buckling under.

Then he spoke.

His words.

Helf mir!

Help me!

Like a lost child.

Like himself, Noam thought. He remembered that horrible feeling when he was under attack. The man had tried to choke him. The feeling of going under. Noam remembered it very clearly. How he thought he was dead.

Hersh had helped him. Risked his life.

Run! Noam shouted to himself.

But then came the cry again.

Helf mir!

Noam ran toward the gun.

The man freeing Hersh. Coming toward him.

Both diving for the gun.

Hersh gasping.

Noam felt the full impact of the big man’s weight. The big man jabbed an elbow into Noam’s shoulder, clawed at him. But Noam managed to sink his fist into the big man’s gut.

The big man doubled over, took in a deep breath. But was still blocking him from the gun.

Again, Noam punched the big man’s stomach, his eyes shooting off sparks of pain each time his hand crunched against rock-hard muscle. He prayed Hersh was still around, wouldn’t desert him.

Desert him like he was going to do to Hersh.

The gun.

Go for the gun!

Noam took a deep breath and shoved his way forward. The big man fell back only an inch. Noam’s fingers spider-walked toward the gun, cool metal grazing the tips. Closer and closer until the butt was at his fingers, locked into his hand.