He walked across a major road and then walked alongside the road until he reached the side street that he turned on. It was a good day for a walk. Then again, every day was a good day to walk. Better to walk than be driven around in their beat-up car or ride the school bus that made him feel like a convict heading to prison.

Does blood wash out of basketball shoes?

He bet that Jack back at his old school knew. Jack was one of his best friends and liked random facts like that. Things like when you die, your hair still grows for a couple of months. Or women blink twice as often as men. Or that the state of Florida is bigger than England. Jack would come across seemingly useless information like this and store it away. Thomas always found it amusing to see what piece of information Jack would end up revealing next.

He could hear his own breathing as he walked down the road. He could see the stains on his shoes again, the blood belonging more to a scene in some horror movie than to him.

Thomas thought back to the fight with Vic.

The more he thought of why it had happened, the more he believed it was because he was a new kid. He and Vic might have been friends if they’d grown up around each other. But nobody liked the new guy. Very few people had bothered noticing him, especially the jocks. But Vic couldn’t help but notice him after that amazing shot. Now he was the new kid who looked like some poor hick but could whip it on a basketball court. Put that into a blender and press mix.

I’ll just keep my distance from Vic. Nothing says I need to play ball with the guy again. It’s not like I’m on the team. Yet.

He picked up a rock on the side from the road and chucked it. Thomas knew that eventually he needed to figure out how to make friends on the basketball team. If they were all like Vic, well—

Most of them are probably good guys. I just gotta be patient. Keep trying.

He started thinking of that Christmas list again when a pickup truck behind him honked its horn and forced Thomas off the road. He moved to let the vehicle pass.

But just as the truck drove by, still honking, Thomas knew.

He knew probably before the driver knew.

The brakes squealed as the truck skidded to a stop.

The red lights backing up spelled trouble, but Thomas didn’t even see them.

He was already running down the street in the opposite direction, trying to get away from the blue rusted-out truck. A truck that belonged to the same guy who’d punched his nose.

The same guy who would grow up to be a not-so-good guy who drove a truck and drank beer and liked to sometimes hit his wife. A guy Thomas recognized a little too well.