Pros and Cons

    "DID YOU CREECHES SEE THAT?!"

    Enuff has to yell over the wind and the whirring engine. He then laughs so hard that he nearly barks. A drop of slobber catches in the current and flies backwards, splattering on my cheek. "CRUMSHACK AIN'T NOTHIN' TO THE KIDD! AIN'T NOTHIN'!" He throttles the handle a few times, throws his head back, and howls.

    "I'll take a...I'll take a muffin..."

    Rocko is still woozy from the tranquilizer dart. His body limply drapes from the throat of Enuff's shirt. "S'long as it...it ain't...buttamilk!" He scrunches his snout and lethargically gags.

    "You hang in there li'l dude!" yells Enuff. "Soon you gone have! All the muffins! You want! AIN'T 'AT RIGHT ELROY?"

    An explosion screams and booms behind us. I look without thinking. But I don't see any monstrous building—I actually can't see much more than fog—but there is an orange, fuzzy glow coming from somewhere deep behind us, and there is a black silhouette of a castle projecting against the fog. I can still hear the doomsday sirens and even some yells. The gun shots are very easy to pick out from all the noise.

    "Just don't! Stop! Driving!" I yell.

    Enuff cackles. "What wrong with you? You thought! Of everythin'! We FREE!"

    I have my doubts about that. And yet, every time I think we'll run into a locked gate or an electric fence or a blockade, we instead find an open door or a clear road or a broken spotlight.

    From his seat in the sidecar, Jamie leans back and looks at me intently. Something's wrong with his face. The fur around his eyes is blonde and his pupils are small despite how dark it is out here. The way he doesn't quite make eye contact with me is unsettling. He has never had a problem staring me down before. But his thin smile is still there, as always.

    "It behooves me to admit," he says, projecting very clear over the noise, "that I am most impressed with your aptitude, if not astounded. You have earned my kudos, Elroy Kidd. I regret doubting you for as long as I did. Master Enuff speaks accurately: you have truly thought of any and all eventualities."

    Right as I am about to protest that point, there is another explosion, except this one is much closer than the last and right above our heads. The foggy air around us turns red. I scrunch up.

    Then there is another explosion, and another. The air turns green, then blue.

    "FIREWORKS?!" screams Enuff. He can barely stay in control of the steering he's so excited. "YOU GOT FIREWORKS?!" He's shaking his head in disbelief, grinning like an awestruck child. "Best day of my life..." he says to himself. He turns to me, and his face is no longer joyful, but grave. "Best day! Of my LIFE," he repeats, and all I can do is nod. He is still looking at me, as if there is something I am expected to say in response to that. I really wish he would instead look where he's driving.

    "Jamie!" I say in an attempt to escape the awkward moment. "Check the glove box! To see if there's something! In there...we...can...?"

    But Jamie has already beat me to it. The glove box is open and he has something in his hand. It looks like a card. He traces the pads of his paw over the surface of the card, feeling the words that are spelled in gold glitter. Once he's figured it out, his eyebrows raise. And is that...is that a tear on his cheek?

    "Oh my..." he says.

    "What is it?" yells Enuff.

    "It is my birthday," Jamie says. He holds up the card. It depicts a basket of kittens in a flower patch. Spelled across the top in glitter and cursive is the message, Happy Purrthday!

    "I did not tell a soul," he continues, "because I wanted this whole day to be about your grand failure, Elroy. I do not know how you knew, but..thank you. I will cherish this always."

    I swallow and give up. "No..no problem big guy."

    What the hell is going on? I can't tell if this is a fantasy or a nightmare, but I am certain that this is not reality. Which is pretty much how I've felt ever since leaving the Judge's house. How long ago was that? Has it really only been thirty-six hours? Good Doug, the thing's that have happened since then...

    Could this all be Toby's doing? Even for him this seems too incredible. Did he somehow find help? If so, who? It would have to be a group of people, surely, to be this coordinated and thorough. But who cares enough about me to go through all this effort? Who even knows I exist?

    I look around for Toby, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of gold flashing through the fog. I see nothing, so I whistle his favorite tune hoping that he'll follow if he is near.

    "At's a...pretty song...Paps..."

    Rocko is falling asleep. Enuff takes his eyes off the road to look down and make sure his Rat companion is doing okay. "Just hang in there, li'l dude! We almost outta here! Get you—oh spit!”

    The moped slides to a messy halt, and I nearly break my nose against Enuff’s back. After we stop, I lean to the side to see what’s the matter.

    We are still in the thick of fog. Our headlight reveals nothing more than maybe two yards of white mist and whatever gravel is beneath it. Yellow fog lamps line the drive, and they illuminate our exit like a runway. Where the two rows of lights converge, somewhere about a mile straight in front of us, orbs of bright lights stretch across what I can only assume is the horizon. And they are getting larger and brighter and closer.

    “Them yo guys, Elroy?”

    Nope. I don’t have any guys—I've never had any guys. Just Toby, and he doesn’t know how to drive. Those lights are almost certainly Officers. I ponder over the predicament as quickly and as best as I can, but my brain can only produce one solution. "Get off the road! Let's get as deep into the fog as we can!"

    "A fallacy," remarks Jamie. "Even if we succeed in losing our pursuers, we will die of starvation before we discover a way out."

    "He right, dude," Enuff says. "We ain't gettin' six feet wit'out fallin' into a ditch or hittin' a tre—"

    "Then stay here and get caught!" I probably sound furious, but really I am just terrified. "How many times do you have to doubt me before you realize you can trust me?"

    Those words have a strong effect on Enuff, because he doesn't even have to think about them. He throttles up again, and the moped speeds off of the path and into the gray abyss.

    At once, we have to decelerate to the speed of a brisk jog. Birch trees, dead and white and smooth as bone, stand in our path every ten feet. We can't see any of them, though, until they are just an arm's length away from our headlight. I turn around to see if we are being followed. I see nothing.

    "Strange,” shouts Jamie. “Does anyone else hear—!"

    Something strikes him in the shoulder, but he hardly looks fazed by it. He reaches down into his seat and picks up a small bean bag between his claws, inspecting it curiously, until another beanbag flies through the air and knocks the first one out of his paw.

    Up ahead, a yellow headlight approaches. Somehow, even at its distance and even through the fog, it is blinding. And it is growing. I can now clearly hear the whine of a small engine revving to its max.

    "We gotta go faster!" I shout.

    "If we go any faster! We dead as—"

    Another beanbag shoots out from the yellow light. It hits Enuff in the neck, just narrowly missing the drowsy Rat that hangs from his collar. Enuff does not take the hit as well as Jamie had taken his, and the boydog almost falls from the moped. The handlebars dip to left, and we would have tipped over had Jamie not calmly grabbed the throttle and steadied the moped until it rolled to a stop.

    "Allow me," the Pandaboy says, and he pulls himself out of the sidecar.

    The motor from the approaching light is now obviously that of a motorcycle or a dirt bike. Once it nears, it slows. The driver can probably see Jamie standing out in the open, completely vulnerable.

    “Jamie!” Enuff hisses. He is still gripping his shoulder. “You blind? Get back in here!”

    Too late. The driver unloads his weapon at the pandaboy, who stands firm in the barrage, as if he were just another tree in the forest. The beanbags that don't bust on impact bounce off his fur and fall to the earth. This continues until there are no more bangs, just the click click click of an empty chamber.

    I can hear the driver curse (I think—it’s a word I’ve never heard before) and I conclude this is our chance to escape. I check our rear again. It is no longer clear. Yellow lights are now faintly visible in the fog, bobbing up and down, twinkling as they passed across trees and dips. Enuff is massaging the spot on his neck where he had been struck. He looks sore, but not impaired enough to prevent him from driving. "Good goin', Jamie! He’s empty!" I say. "Now let's go!"

    Rather than hop back in the car, the pandaboy bends over and picks up one of the beanbags. He tosses it up and down. Clasping both paws around it, he brings the bag to his chest, checks over his shoulder, points his ears at the sound of the reloading gun, walks backwards, then sprints forwards, spinning his hand around and around like a windmill in a hurricane. He lets go of the bag, and it slings out of his paw nearly as quick as if it had been shot from a gun. The bag disappears into the yellow light. It strikes something with a thunk, but there is no scream or yelp, and the light on the motorcycle doesn't falter.

    After a few seconds, though, the blob of yellow leans to the side then crashes against the ground.

      Enuff and I cheer. Jamie bows. "Star bowler for the Rockingshire Cavaliers, back in my hayday," he says as he approaches the moped. He is feeling around in front of him for the sidecar.

    "Suck yeah!" growls Enuff. "Don't know what none of that means, but that was suckin' ace!"

    Jamie finds the sidecar, and, for the first time since I have known him, the grin on his face feels genuine.

    Enuff revs the engine and starts to go.

    "Wait!" I say. "Hold on for just a second."

    Enuff looks over his shoulder at me, then looks over my shoulder at the dots of yellow lights behind us. "Whatever you thinkin', you best make it quick."

    I nod and hop off the moped. I run to the fallen motorcycle. The driver is on the ground with his bike lying across his shins. He doesn’t look like a C.O. He is dressed in black leather and he is wearing Cowboy boots with pointed toes. His helmet is painted like a skull, and the black visor obscures his face. He also looks dead, but I doubt that Jamie's arm is that good.

    I check the headlamp. There is a bolt securing it onto the handlebar. I unscrew it then remove the light. I get ready to leave, then jump when I hear a voice yell at me from underneath the motorcycle.

    "—taillights fleeing to the south-south-east from mile marker 0.5 on the main service road. All nearby Officers are to pursue at once. I repeat: taillights were seen..."

    It is the driver's radio, which is clipped to the man's leather jacket. Carefully, as if he might wake up and bite me, I remove it. After thinking for a few moments, I click the talk button on the side of the microphone.

    "Uh, yeah...I...uh," I say, in as deep a voice as I can summon. I have to let go of the button and clear my throat. Also, for whatever reason, I speak in an unidentifiable accent. "I 'ave eyes on zee bo-ee! He iz runneeng on fùt! Uh...he iz headeeng nort-nort-ees of mile merker...uno. Uh...rekeesteeng bagup! Rekeesteeng bagup!"

    I let go of the button and wait to see if my transmission went through.

    "...who was that?" says a voice over the radio. "State your identification."

    I lick my lips, then press the button again.

    "Heez got a gun! Heez takeeng ostagiz! Looke out! Heez shoo—AHH—!"

    I drop the radio then watch the approaching yellow lights. And, to my amazement, they thin. About half of them are turning around. With relief, I start for the moped.

    Something grabs my ankle and pulls me back. I fall flat on my face and drop the lamp. It hits the ground and spins, pointing straight into my face. I blow dirt off of my lips and look behind me. The driver is awake.

    I kick at his hand with my free foot, but it does no good. He drags me closer until his other hand can grab my leg too. "Help!" I scream.

    "Elroy!" says Enuff. "Hold on! I'm comin'!"

    But the man has me firmly against his body, and is already strong enough to stand us both back up. Before Enuff can even swing off the moped, the man crouches down and grabs the fog light. He turns it off, and all I can see is gray.

    "Spit!" I hear from the fog. "Elroy! I can't see you no more! Say some'in!"

    "WE'RE OVER—!"

    The man presses his leather glove against my mouth and swiftly ducks as another one of Jamie's bags flies by. Slowly, he and I both creep backwards and to the north, deeper into the forest.

    "Elroy! ELROY!" screams Enuff. From the direction his voice is pointed, I can tell he's already disoriented. And there's nothing I can do but groan into the man's glove.

    But then I hear something, something that sounds like the fluttering of dove. The sound is very familiar.

    Something whips past, and the man stops walking. I can feel him looking around for the source of the sound. It's quiet again, and I am listening just as fiercely as him.

    He can't turn around quick enough, and Toby flies straight into his neck. The man drops the light, and it hits the ground and clicks back on, shining right onto our feet. Toby comes back around for another hit and manages to knock the man right at the bottom of his spine. The man lets go of me and yelps.

    "Look over there!" I hear Jamie say. "I can hear them!"

    I can't see anything other than the man's boots standing in the yellow light, but I can still hear Toby attacking him like a hawk.

    "I see'm!" shouts Enuff. "I see their feet! I think Elroy got the better of'm!" 

    Toby rams into the guy's stomach, and for a brief moment I can see his purple skin as he flies past. The man doubles over in pain. 

    "Oh spit, yo! Elroy's poundin' the snot out of'm!"

    Toby's golden tail flashes by me like a whip, and then I hear it latch onto the man's neck. The man's boots float off the ground a few centimeters, and I can hear the guy choking. Jeez, Tobe...

    The gurgling sounds stop, and Toby lets go. The man crumples to the ground, collapsing neatly into the bed of yellow light.

    "He got'm!" Enuff shouts. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout! That dude won't nothin' to the Kidd! Nothin'!"

   "(...still waitin' on that...muffin, Ma...)"

    I can't hear Toby anymore, and I panic. I softly whistle, and then wait quietly. Still nothing. And then, ever so gently, I feel him nudge against my shoulder.

    "Toby! You came for me! Oh, gosh, you shouldn't have done that this time. Toby...this place is dangerous."

    But he doesn't understand me, of course. He continues to nudge me until I give him what he wants, his payment for being a good ally. I oblige his request, and I scratch him under his spokes. He purrs.

    "Yo! Elroy! We need to go!" The sounds of motors are very distinct now, and the yellow lights are even closer.

    Toby releases from me, his tail brushing against my cheek, and I can hear him flutter towards the oncoming pursuers. "Toby!" But too late. He's gone. I think about chasing him and leaving the three boys to their own fate, but the logic just isn't there; I would only succeed at losing everyone, even myself. So I snatch up the fog lamp and jog back to the moped. If Toby followed me this far, I think, he should be able to follow me the rest of the way. And that's what I keep telling myself.

    I hand the light to Jamie, and I tell him to hold it straight ahead. He nods like he understands, but he points the beam about forty-five degrees to the right. I gnaw on my lips and gently correct his aim. He doesn't seem to notice my alteration. Whatever. Deal with it later.

    I hop back on and we go. The difference the fog lamp makes is astounding. Where before we could only see a tree or a hole or a boulder after it had practically hit us, now we can see every obstacle caught within fifty feet of the beam's path. Enuff twists the throttle as far back as it can go, and we easily weave in and out of the trees. "Which direction?" he yells back to me.

    I glance behind us again. The lights are still there. Not as many, but still enough. Still gaining.

    "This way's fine!" I shout up to him. "Just don't stop! We’re not! Out of the woods! Yet!"

    If we are going in circles, or even if we are heading back to Crumshack, I have no idea. We might even been heading straight to the edge of a cliff, as far as I know—which, truthfully, is an outcome that I don't exactly dread at this point. I have already decided that, if we are caught and returned to Crumshack, that I will devote the rest of my existence to bringing my life to an expeditious conclusion. I just don't have it in me to do this all over again (if I ever had it in me in the first place).

    “Look!” says Enuff, and I look, but at first I don’t understand what it is that we are supposed to be seeing. Then it hits me. I can see trees, even without the help of the fog lamp. All around us, I can vaguely make out birches and clumps of dead weeds and piles of stone. The fog is thinning.

    I wonder how much longer before we are completely clear of it, or even if we will be; I expect the fog to thicken again, a sure sign that we are going in circles. Then, with no warning at all, there is sunlight. All over and all around. Blue sky and warmth. And a horizon. A real horizon, that is curved and thin and infinite. To our right are the hills. To our left, the woods. And dead ahead, majestic and holy, are open pastures.

    Enuff and Jamie (and even Rocko, in his groggy state) are taking in this warm, new world with awe. I can only imagine what they are feeling. I have only been in Crumshack for maybe a day, and even I feel as if this is another planet, one that may as well be paradise. Just seeing the sun is enough to stop my breath, for I had forgotten that it even existed. Only one minute prior, the world was dark and quiet, never giving any hint as to the actual time of day, only ever suggesting the absolute dead of night.

    Enuff rubs at his glistening eyes. Jamie closes his own and basks in the warmth.

    Something that feels like a metal fist punches into my back. The air in my chest disappears. The force of the impact pushes me forward into Enuff. The moped swerves precariously, then corrects itself before we can crash.

    I turn around. The towering wall of fog is now behind us. I can still see the hole that our moped made after busting through. The opening is already closing up, and watching the wisps of moisture overlap and intertwine to heal the wound is like looking at something alive and immortal.

    More holes open up as beanbags blindly shoot out of the fog. Most of the bags fall short or break against the trunk of a tree, but a few whiz past our heads and tumble by our wheels. One sails far above us and into the grass of the pastures we are now entering.

    This new land was once covered in fog, it seems, not too long ago. The few trees that stand in the fields are dark and leafless. Skeletons of dead cattle dot the area like strange piles of white rocks. The grass is brown and gold, and it crunches under the moped like dry twigs and beats against my ankles like switches. A gray barn butts up against the base of the hills, half of it missing due to the collapse of the silo beside it.

    A white cloud rises from behind a line of pines on the far end of pastures. I trace it down to where it originates, and I try to figure out the source. Then I see a railroad track, running parallel to a gravel road to our far left, and then a long, echoing wail confirms my suspicion.

    "Enuff!" I yell. "Cut left! We got to! Beat that train!"

    He nods, and the moped takes a sharp turn to the east. I check again to see how much distance is between us and our pursuers. The fog looks even more menacing and formidable from a distance. It is nearly as tall as the hills it borders. Tentacles of mist slither through the dips between the peaks. The yellow lights of the motorcycles look so small in comparison to it, and when they finally fly out of the giant cloud, they don't resemble jets bursting out of a waterfall (as I had so vividly imagined the four us had looked) as much as they resemble zits popping on the back of a whale.

    There are five of them, and each is armed. Only one of them emerges from the same spot as we had. The rest are spread far out across the fog. The one who is on the same path as us does not deviate, but the others have to navigate through the trees and hills so they can fall in behind the one who had correctly guessed our exit point. This puts a lot of distance between the leader and the rest of the pack. He will probably reach us a full minute before the others.

    The train appears from behind the trees to the south, and it, too, is moving fast. I kept looking from the tracks to the motorcycles, and I try to calculate the variables of our situation.

    About 1500 yards from us to the track, I think. We're traveling at roughly 45 miles per hour. The train is 3500 yards away traveling at 90 miles an hour...the bikes are...carry the 2...multiply by pi...subtract the dividend by y...oh. Oh, wow. Can't be. I run the numbers in my head again, but I keep coming up with the same answer. There is no denying it.

    "We're gonna make it!" I yell.

    "What?" says Enuff.

    "I said! As long as you don't slow down! We're gonna make it!"

    "Are you certain about that, Master Kidd?"

    "Yes! We're just seventy seconds away from crossing those tracks! Once we do! We're home free! The train will separate us from—"

    TOINK!

    A spark pops on the front fender, caused by something much harder and faster than a beanbag. The lead motorcyclist is already within firing range.

    "I thought you said! We were gonna make it!" screams Enuff. "We ain't gonna dodge 'is guy's bullets! For seventy suckin' seconds!"

    "I didn't realize! They would be using! ACTUAL bullets!"

    "You think these dudes just be jokin—"

    FLATONK!

    That one bounces off the rear bumper.

    "Jamie!" says Enuff. "Throw somethin' at him!"

    Our dire predicament was still not enough to curb Jamie's need to roll his wild-looking eyes. "From this distance? Besides! I can only pitch! If I have a running start! Do you not know how cricket is played? I would not be surprised!"

    "Oh, I'll give yo black-an-white butt! A runnin' start! If you don' shut up an—"

    SHWHOP!

    This time the shooter finds his mark. The bullet hits Enuff in his left hand, right through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. The boydog yelps and lets go of the handles. Once again, Jamie is able to keep the moped in control, but not after it first swerves and runs over the limb of a fallen tree.

    The moped bounces up and crashes down, and, as if in slow-motion, I see Rocko's body become weightless and slip completely out of Enuff's shirt. He flips over Enuff's shoulder, then rotates past my head. The image of ignorant contentment on his face as he floats through the air burns in my brain like a photograph. I try to grab him, but my reflexes have never been great, even when the rest of the world is in slow-motion. The Rat hits the ground some distance behind us, and I can make out his tiny crater in the grass.

    Enuff is too occupied with his bleeding hand to notice, and Jamie is too busy steering. I am the only one who saw it happen.

    As I always have, I take my time to consider all of my options. I look at this new dilemma objectively and logically, just as I have addressed every other issue I have ever encountered, same as I would do in any poker tournament. No one noticed Rocko, so no one would be suspicious if I didn't notice either. Even if I were to tell them what had happened, we won't be able to turn around and go back without getting caught. The train is only thirty seconds away from blocking off our only exit. Besides, there is a high chance he didn’t survive the fall.

    So, after careful deduction, I conclude that the smartest thing to do is to not tell anybody that Rocko's body (probably unconscious, at best) is now right in the path of a stampede of motorcycles. It is obvious that the most intelligent thing to do is to remain silent and actionless, no matter how unethical. The logic is sound and irrefutable.

    And yet, for some reason, I shout into Jamie's ear, "Don't! Stop! Driving!", just before jumping off.

I HIT THE GROUND at 45 miles an hour. My clothes tear to shreds against the shoots of dead grass. Tiny pebbles and flecks of quartz embed themselves into my knees and elbows. Dust sticks to my eyelashes. My organs rattle against my bones.

    The lead motorcyclist zooms past me and continues pursuit of Enuff and Jamie. He doesn’t need to stop for me because his backup will have no problem with that; they'll be on me in a just a minute.

    I only allow myself a breath or two before sitting up, shaking the stars out of my eyes, and starting towards the spot where I saw Rocko go down. It is easy to relocate, because it is directly between me and the wall of dust rising from the four approaching motorcycles.

    When I see Rocko's impact site, I slide to it on my knees. I claw through the grass looking for him. When I find him, he is flat on a rock, not moving.

    "Rocko?" I poke his body with my fingers. He still doesn't stir. "Rocko!"

    "...I don' even like 'em mice, ma...'ey got...lice..."

    "Oh, thank Doug!" I smack my fingers against his cheek. "C'mon, buddy. Wake up! I need you to be awake now! Come on!"

    Rocko swats at my fingers and rolls over onto his side. "...I'm much betta at...checkas anywho..."

     I moan, and the train mimics the sound loudly. I turn around to watch it. The moped is still moving, and Enuff and Jamie are definitely going to make it. The motorcyclist leader, though, is not, and he must have come to the same conclusion, because he spins around and heads back towards me.

    "Spit!" I go back to Rocko. I snap my fingers and clap my hands. "Come on, Rocko! Wake up!"

    "...dunno how ta even..play dice..."

    I reach around to my back and unfolded my waistband. "Sorry, Rocko," I say. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!” And I pinch his tail between my fingers with one hand and open the lighter with my other.

    ...

    “YeeeEEEEEOOOOOOOOOW!”

    Rocko jumps up off the rock and grabs his flaming tail in his hands. He runs around in circles, blowing on the fire. He then flings himself onto the dirt. "Stap-drap'n-roll! Stap-drap'n-roll!" he keeps repeating. As soon as I confirm the fire is out, I grip him in both hands, pick him up, and bring him to my face. His eyes are certainly open now, and his breathing isn't nearly as slow as it had been.

    "Who am I?" I scream into his face.

    "Elroy!" he squeaks back.

    "Where are you?"

    "I dunno!"

    "Are you in Crumshack?"

    "No!"

    "Do you want to go to Crumshack?"

    "No!"

    "Will you listen to me?"

    "Yes!"

    "Then LISTEN!"

    "Okay!"

    I put him back on the ground and crouch so that I am eye to eye with him. He is a spotless image of terror and alertness. "In about twelve seconds, a weird-looking C.O. on a bike is gonna be here to take us back to Crumshack—in about fifty seconds, four more are gonna be here. Are you listening? After that, they'll be who-knows-how many out here. You have got to hide. I'll slow them down for a bit, but they'll still go looking for you. You have about one minute to find a hole or a log or a bush or something to hide in until this is all over, then you get as far away from here as you can. Got that?"

    Rocko nods, wide eyed.

    "Then go!"

    And Rocko dashes away to the southwest, the same direction as the half-destroyed barn. In no time at all, he is gone.

    Relieved, I fall backwards onto my butt and catch my breath. The motorcycle leader nears, and I can see that he is also dressed like the man in the woods—black helmet with a black visor, black leather jacket, pointy boots. He holsters his gun; he is going to take me in alive, it seems. Great.

    I look past him, and I see that the train now stretches completely across the fields between the pines and the birch. The moped is nowhere in sight. Hopefully that means the other two made it (and not that they were instantly converted into pink smithereens). The train looks to be a lengthy one, which is ideal for their getaway. It is even slowing down, probably because the locomotive had just entered the fog. I can hear the wheels squealing against the rails and the joints bumping between cars.  

    The man rolls to a stop right in the middle of my view of the train. He kicks out the stand, opens up a leather saddle bag that hangs off his seat, and pulls out a nightstick. He doesn't even bother to take off his helmet or flip up his visor.

    I wearily stand up and face him, and the man walks towards me with no sense of urgency, in a manner too slow and too cruel to call predatory. He rolls the nightstick in the palm of his leather driving glove, savoring the sound of it crunching in his fist. He takes a break from that to press a button on a box clipped to his belt. He speaks unintelligibly into the radio. I think he’s speaking Spanish.

    Spanish? I think. Why the heck is he—

    My eyes drift to a spot just beyond the man’s elbow. A part forms in the grass like a fissure in the earth. It zigzags out from the train and heads directly towards us.

    The man must have seen my eyes drift, because he spins around and readies his stick to swing, but he still isn't fast enough to club the boydog as he springs from the grass and tackles the man right where he stands. They both fly into the tall weeds.

    I can't see what is happening, but I hear a lot of snarling and even more screaming. Then all I hear is quiet.

    Enuff stands up out of the grass, the man's helmet in hand. He is staring downwards in confusion. But then he flings the helmet down hard, and I hear it smack into something that sounds more like meat than ground.

    "Enuff! You guys came back for me!"

    He approaches, brushing his hands off with his pants. His left hand is bandaged with a piece torn from his shirt. "Just me. Jamie waved good-bye when I jumped."

    "Oh...but, still. You came back. That's...that's...I don't even know what that is." All of sudden, my throat feels tight, and my eyes feel soft. I have a hard time touching my teeth together. "Why...why'd you do that?"

    He comes over and punches me in the shoulder. "Whatchoo mean, normo? You woulda did the same for me. Same reason you went after Rocko."

    This does nothing to help my comprehension. I understand my reasoning for going after Rocko as a bout of temporary madness. There is no reasoning about it.  

    "Where he at, anyway?"

    I brush away some snot from my lip. "He's, uh...he's gone."

    Enuff runs his fingers backwards through what little hair and fuzz is on top of his head. "Oh, spit. I shoulda paid more attention when I was drivin'. Oh, spit! Stupid! Stupid!"

    "What? Oh, no no no! He's alive, I just told him to run and hide. So, you know, he's gone."

    Enuff smiles and shakes his head. Oddly, he laughs. He then looks at the approaching bikes. I look too. They will be right on top of us at any second. "Well, Enuff. I guess it's time to face the music. We had a good...a good...uh, Enuff?" He is no longer standing by my side.

    The motorcycle behind me growls into action. I spin around at the noise. Enuff is sitting on it. As natural as he and a motorcycle look together, he is still ridiculously undersized for the machine. He almost has to lay down flat just to reach the handles.

    "I'm gonna give'm some'in to chase," he says. "You get outta here."

    "Whoa, Enuff, you can't—"

    "Hey! Job's done. You ain't my boss no more. Besides...I see you when you come back for the rest of the Shack, like you promised."

    "Enuff..."

    The boydog, too short to retract the kickstand, lets go of the brake and speeds off through the grass. The chrome stand scrapes a rock, snaps off, and spirals up into the air, glistening like a falling star.

    I watch as Enuff's motorcycle charges the line of bikes. At the last second, he cuts across them and speeds off towards the woods. I can hear gunshots and spinning tires. All four bikes follow Enuff for a stretch, and then I see one break off from the pack and turn around. It aims towards me, and it doesn't slow down.

    I run, and the only thing faster than me in all the world it seems, is that train (and even then, not by much). It almost costs me my arms, but I am able to snatch the bottom rung of a ladder attached to the side of a car. I hoist myself up until I am clear of the ground.

    Something yanks on my shirt, and I almost fall backwards. The motorcyclist has already caught up to me, it seems.

    I won't let go of the ladder, and he won't let go of my shirt. I try to climb higher, but I'm worried if I let go with one of my hands for even a second, it'll be enough for the man to pull me off. Without letting go of me, the man gradually steers his dirt bike away from the train. My shirt tugs at my chest and tears behind my neck. If it were to tear off completely, I might get a chance to climb out of reach...but it feels like my grip will give before the shirt.

    Out the corner of my eye, I see a flash of purple and gold, then I hear a grunt from the biker, and the tension releases on my shirt. Immediately I climb out of range and look back to see what happened.

    The dirt bike is skidding on its side in a cloud of dust. The driver is rolling across the ground. As I'm trying to figure out what happened, I hear a chirping coo.

    "Toby!"

    And there he is, floating in the air beside me, keeping perfect pace with the train, his ribboned tail fluttering behind him majestically. His sail is dirty and faded and his eyes looked exhausted, but other than that, my pet Kite is just as I remember.

    "C'mon!" I say, trying not to burst into laughter or tears. "Let's get inside then—"

    FWOP!

    A hole opens up in Toby's sail, and he falters.

   "No!"

   The fallen motorcyclist is firing at us from his spot on the ground.

    SHLIP!

     Another hole forms in Toby, just as my car slips into the fog. Toby cries and spirals out of control into the fog. "Toby!" I yell, but me and my voice are swallowed by the fog. Almost as quickly as it had arrived, the sun disappears. The day falls back to night, and once again I am supposedly free.