Nehemiah drives down the court through a clear lane that opens up for him. Bait he’s unable to resist. I call out to him. Kutter steps into the lane, just enough to trip him. Nehemiah sails through the air. He hits the concrete and rolls to a stop. The ground rips up his shirt and cuts a seam across the knees of his pants. Kids rush over to pick him up, but he knocks their hands away. An empty hardness fills Nehemiah’s eyes. The same way Moms ticked once her needle crept into the red and was beyond hearing anybody.

Nehemiah springs up and charges. Kutter waits on him. His boys part to open an unobstructed path for Nehemiah to reach Kutter. A bubble of bodies collapses on them after that. Only then do I realize that we have no allies in the group. Rodrigo’s still walking the line. Twon is on the other side of the playground along with the all-too-far-away Mr. Blackmon. Ms. Erickson patrols the swings, attending to the gossip girls. We are all alone.

I freeze.

The scene rewinds itself and replays at slow speed. I can’t breathe. Fear creeps up my belly and down my legs, rooting me to my spot. I’m smart and I’m tough, but I’m not hood level. I wasn’t raised in the streets. Kutter’s stone-cold glare, its sheer ruthlessness, chills me. It’s the stare of someone with nothing to lose. That there are few lengths he isn’t willing to go. Nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice.

All his rage and hate and emptiness could just as easily land on me. His hands could easily hold a gun. In a moment, his gaze burns through me and reveals how little I understand what all is in motion. It reminds me of what I do care about and how much I have left to lose. Starting with my friends.

Though they anchor themselves in a pretend pick-and-roll to block me, RaShawn and his partner don’t have to do much work. The boys surge, a storm on two fronts: one carefully positioned to shield prying eyes, the other pounces on Nehemiah. Their bodies press in. They shout in angry snarls. Bits of spit fly as they work themselves up. Not so loud as to draw too much attention. The boys close in tighter. Quick jabs to Nehemiah’s gut. An elbow to his jaw. A few well-placed kicks turn to stomps when he stumbles to the ground. Kutter grabs Nehemiah’s wrist and falls on it. A wet pop follows along with Nehemiah’s howl.

“Step back, step back.” Mr. Blackmon charges through the boys. “Give me some room.”

Kutter is slow to roll off Nehemiah, who squeezes his eyes shut, making a dam of his eyelids. Heavy tears stream down his face, mixing with the dirt on his cheeks to create muddy streaks. Mr. Blackmon checks him for cuts and bruises. When he touches his arm, Nehemiah screeches again. The gathered crowd swells. Some have the decency to wear horrified expressions. Though they fight for a better view, they leave a curious space around me, allowing me plenty of room. Or distancing themselves to not catch what I have: a case of traitor for not jumping in to defend Nehemiah.