PHILLIP QUINN DIED AT the age of thirteen. Since the overworked and underpaid staff at the Baltimore City Hospital emergency room zapped him back in less than ninety seconds, he wasn’t dead very long.

As far as he was concerned, it was plenty long enough.

What had killed him—briefly—was two .25-caliber bullets pumped out of a Saturday night special shoved through the open window of a stolen Toyota Celica. The finger on the trigger had belonged to a close personal friend—or as near to a close personal friend as a thirteen-year-old thief could claim on Baltimore’s bad streets.

The bullets missed his heart. Not by much, but in later years Phillip considered it just far enough.

That heart, young and strong, if sadly jaded, continued to beat as he lay, his blood pouring out over the used condoms and crack vials in the stinking gutter on thecorner of Fayette and Paca.

The pain was obscene, like sharp, burning icicles stabbing into his chest. But that grinning pain refused to take him under, into the release of unconsciousness. He lay awake and aware, hearing the screams of other victims or bystanders, the squeal of brakes, the revving engines, and his own ragged and rapid breathing.

He’d just fenced a small haul of electronics that he stole from a third-story walk-up less than four blocks away. With two hundred fifty dollars in his pocket, he hadswaggered down to score a dime bag to help him get through the night. Since he’d just been sprung from ninety days in juvie for another B and E that hadn’t gone quite so smoothly, he was out of the loop. And out of cash.

Now it appeared he was out of luck.

Later he would remember thinking, Shit, oh, shit, this hurts ! But he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around another thought. He’d gotten in the way. He knew that. The bullets weren’t meant for him, in particular. He’d caught a glimpse of the gang colors in that frozen three seconds before the gun had fired. His own colors, when he bothered to associate himself with one of the gangs who roamed the streets and alleys of the city.

If he hadn’t just popped out of the system, he wouldn’t have been on that corner at that moment. He would have been warned to stay clear, and he wouldn’t be sprawled on the street, staring into the dirty mouth of the gutter while his lifeblood pumped out of him.

Lights flashed—blue, red, white. Dully, he watched them turn the gutter trash into bright, nasty gifts. The scream of sirens pierced through human screams. Cops. Even through the slick haze of pain, his instinct was to run. In his mind he sprang up—young, agile, street-smart and melted into the shadows. But even at the effort of the thought, cold sweat slid down his face.