When he reached that down-curve, he didn’t look back. There was a somewhat hidden path between two houses on the left. Myron had used it to go to Burnet Hill Elementary School. All the kids did. It was the strangest thing—a paved walking path between two houses—but he knew it was still there.

The very bad hombres would not.

The paved walk was public enough, but Myron had another idea. The Horowitzes used to live in the house on the left. Myron had built a fort in the woods there with one of them a lifetime ago. Mrs. Horowitz had been furious about it. He veered into that area now. There used to be a crawling path under the bush, one that led from the Horowitzes’ backyard on Coddington Terrace to the Seidens’ on Ridge Road.

Myron pushed the first bush to the side. It was still there. He got down on his hands and knees and scrambled through the opening. Brown branches whipped his face. It didn’t hurt so much as bring him back to a more innocent time.

As he emerged on the other side, in the old Seidens’ backyard, he wondered if the Seiden family still lived here. The answer came to him fast.

Mrs. Seiden was in the backyard. She wore a kerchief and gardening gloves.

“Myron?” There was no hesitation or even much surprise in her voice. “Myron Bolitar, is that you?”

He had gone to school with her son, Doug, although he had not crawled through this path or even been in this backyard since he was maybe ten years old. But that didn’t matter in towns like this. If you were friends in elementary school, there was always some kind of link.

Mrs. Seiden blew the strands of hair out of her face. She started toward him. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to involve anyone else. She opened her mouth to say something, but Myron silenced her with a finger to his lips.

She saw the look on his face and stopped. He gestured for her to get in the house. She gave a slight nod and moved toward it. She opened the back door.

Someone shouted, “Where the hell did he go?”

Myron waited for Mrs. Seiden to disappear from view. But she didn’t go inside.

Their eyes met. Now it was Mrs. Seiden’s turn to gesture. She motioned for him to come inside too. He shook his head. Too dangerous.

Mrs. Seiden stood there, her back rigid.

She would not move.

A sound came from the brush. Myron snapped his head toward it. It stopped. Could have been a squirrel. No way they could have found him already. But Win had called them “very bad” meaning, of course, very good at what they did. Win was never one for overstatement. If he said these guys were very bad . . .

Myron listened. No sound now. That scared him more than noise.

He did not want to put Mrs. Seiden in further danger. He shook his head one more time. She just stood there, holding the door open.

There was no sense in arguing. There are few creatures more stubborn than Livingston mothers.

Keeping low, he sprinted across the yard and through the open door, dragging her in with him.

She closed the door.

“Stay down.”

“The phone,” Mrs. Seiden said, “is over there.”

It was a kitchen wall unit. He dialed Win.

“I’m eight miles away from your house,” Win said.

“I’m not there,” Myron said. “I’m on Ridge Road.” He looked back at Mrs. Seiden for more information.

“Seventy-eight,” she said. “And it’s Ridge Drive, not Road.”

Myron repeated what she’d said. He told Win there were three of them, including Dominick Rochester.

“Are you armed?” Win asked.

“No.”

Win didn’t lecture him, but Myron knew that he wanted to. “The other two are good and sadistic,” Win said. “Stay hidden until I get there.”

“We’re not moving,” Myron said.

And that was when the back door burst open.

Myron turned in time to see Hippy Art Teacher fly through it.

“Run!” Myron shouted at Mrs. Seiden. But he didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. Art Teacher was still off balance. Myron leapt toward him.

But Art Teacher was fast.

He sidestepped Myron’s lunge. Myron saw that he was going to miss. He stuck out his left arm, clothesline style, hoping to get under Art’s chin. The blow touched down on the back of Art’s head, cushioned by the ponytail. Art staggered. He turned and hit Myron a short shot to the rib cage.

The man was very fast.

Everything slowed down again. In the distance, Myron could hear footsteps. Mrs. Seiden making a run for it. Art Teacher smiled at Myron, breathing hard. The speed of that punch told Myron that he probably shouldn’t stand and trade blows. Myron had the size advantage. And that meant taking him to the floor.

Art Teacher revved up to throw another punch. Myron crowded in. It was tougher to hit someone hard, especially someone bigger, when you crowded in. Myron grabbed Art Teacher’s shirt by the shoulders. He twisted to take him down, raising a forearm at the same time.

Myron hoped to put the forearm against the man’s nose. Myron weighed two hundred fifteen pounds. That kind of size, you land full force with your forearm resting on someone’s nose, the nose is going to snap like a dried-out bird’s nest.

But again Art Teacher was good. He saw what Myron intended to do. He tucked down just a little. The forearm was now resting on the rose-tinted glasses. Art Teacher closed his eyes and pulled them both down harder. He also raised a knee up to Myron’s midsection. Myron had to curve in his belly to protect himself. That took a good part of the power away from his forearm blow.

When they landed, the wire-framed glasses bent, but there was no serious power behind the shot. Art Teacher had the momentum now. He shifted his weight. His knee hadn’t landed with much force either because of the way Myron had rounded his back. But the knee was still there. And the momentum.

He threw Myron over his head. Myron took it with a roll. In less than a second they were both on their feet.

The two men faced each other.

Here was what they don’t tell you about fighting: You always feel crippling, paralyzing fear. The first few times, when Myron felt that stress-induced tingle in his legs, the kind that got so bad you wondered if you’d be able to stay on your feet, he felt like the worst sort of coward. Men who only get into a scrape or two, who get that leg tingle when they argue with a drunk lout at a bar, feel awash with shame. They shouldn’t. It is not cowardice. It is a natural biological reaction. Everyone feels that way.

The question is, what do you do with that? What you learn with experience is that it can be controlled, harnessed even. You need to breathe. You need to relax. If you get hit when you’re tensed up, it’ll cause more damage.