When he got to the road marker he was looking for, he veered off Wilma Way and rode onto a wooded trail. It was a trail he could ride blindfolded—one he had first tackled on his Schwinn in grade school. What was usually a sandy path was now soft mud, slick as ice. Dirt clots pelted his chest. Stray tree limbs whipped his legs. He fishtailed up the narrow single-track until it broke through the tree line and came to a dead end where the ravine opened up at the edge of a sheer cliff. He squeezed the brake and swung his rear wheel around, stopping just inches from the edge. A fan of mud sailed toward the river far below.

He killed the engine and opened the visor of his helmet. Cold rain stung his face.

He gazed down at the water. The residual vibration of the engine tingled his extremities and he felt at peace for the first time all day. Since childhood, this had been his favorite place—the place he went when he wanted to get away, to think, to be alone.

To drink.

He came off the bike and sat at the cliff’s edge, dangling mud-caked boots over the side. He took the bottle out from under his jacket and knocked back a long swig. The warm liquor stung his throat and burned even more as it trickled down his chest.

It tasted great and felt even better.

He huddled against the cold wind and watched the white foam churning below. The storm had already brought up the water level considerably.

Lightning flashed, revealing Leightner Bridge about a hundred yards upriver. He smeared the mud from the face of his watch. The bus should be passing by any time now, if it hadn’t already. He hoped he hadn’t missed it. He wanted to offer a toast to the Jackrabbits as they headed off to their slaughter without him.

He took another drink, and his mind went back to the conversation in Hickham’s office. He still couldn’t understand why Coach wouldn’t at least let him suit up, let him play one offensive series to prove that he could still do it. Put him on a field in front of three thousand people, with the adrenaline pumping and the season on the line, and the last thing he would have been thinking about was a couple of missing fingers.

He took off the glove and made a fist with the remaining fingers. There was no pain; the mobility was completely intact. He punched the fist into his other palm. Still no pain. Whatever Mona had done to him was nothing short of a miracle.

He stood and looked upriver. Still no sign of the bus.

He took another drink and waited.

Booker was fixin’ to get pissed.