Art
Chill's foot dragged behind him like a murder victim being taken to a shallow grave by a killer too weak to do the job—but he still stood straighter than any other kid in school.
We had the top down on our old Le Baron and the sun was beating from a sky that was nothing but blue. It was my mom's turn to drive, so I was stretched out in the passenger seat, watching Saskatchewan slide by, thinking there must be a couple dozen different ways for a guy to kill himself.
I scrambled back to the sidewalk and started cramming everything into my pack. At least I tried to. But nothing wanted to go. Paint tubes squirted through my fingers; brushes got caught in the sidewalk cracks. My water bottle rolled away. And that's when I realized there was someone standing near the end of the wall. I looked up. My mouth went dry. It was a man with a baseball bat. "I thought I might find you here tonight," he said.
