TENI met Bill Ward at Raedeker Park around seven. The Creature from the Black Lagoon started at eight, so we bought some hotdogs from the concession stand and walked through the zoo, because they always offered free admission an hour before the weekly movie. Raedeker Recreational Park wasn’t just an athletic field and a playground. It was a collection of various attractions on the west end of town. Down Barstow Road past the New York State Electric and Gas Payment Center, left onto Samara Hill and about two miles up on the right sprawled Raedeker Recreational Park. Upon entering, if you went straight, you’d take a winding road descending to Raedeker Park Zoo.The zoo wasn’t that impressive. It offered only a moderate collection of animals, always permeated by a mild air of dilapidation, constantly under a renovation that never seemed to end. According to Dad, it started to go downhill years ago after it suffered a rash of weird accidents. First, a train ride derailed, resulting in m

TWELVEI squeezed my bike’s handbrakes, slowing to a stop. “Jake,” I said, feeling oddly calm, for some reason. “What’s up?”He shrugged, his face weirdly blank in the yellow glow of the streetlights.“Were you at the movie? Didn’t see you.”He shook his head. “Nah. I . . . uh, had some thinkin’ to do. About stuff. Hey,” he leaned over his handlebars, face finally coming alive, looking eager, nervous, maybe excited . . . and . . .Yes.Afraid.“Listen. I’m gonna do somethin’ tonight. I need help. Someone to watch out. Could . . . could you go with me? I’m sorry for the way I freaked out in the woods Saturday. I just . . . I need your help, man. Need you to watch out for me.”I stared at him: his brow furrowed, jaw firm, a vein pulsing on his temple, eyes wide and glimmering. I knew where he wanted to go but I asked anyway. “Where?”And then I saw it, creeping back into his face as a gradual sneer—that old Jake Burns look, but with something else burning his eyes.Hate.Absol

FOURTEENJake brought his bike to a skidding stop along Bassler Road’s gravel shoulder. I followed suit. We walked our bikes the rest of the way. As we turned onto Mr. Trung’s property, his trailer leaped from the darkness, a dim white ghost partially lit by one porch light.To our left the rows of blueberry bushes looked like dark, impenetrable walls of a maze. On the other side of the trailer lay Mr. Trung’s beautifully manicured flower gardens and his koi pond . . .Mr. Trung, praying in the koi pond.The koi praying to him.. . . and I felt a surge of inexplicable relief that Mr. Trung’s trailer blocked my view of the garden and that koi pond.The koi.Praying to Mr. Trung.“Here,” Jake whispered as he cut off the road, across the shallow ditch and along the edge of Mr. Trung’s property. “Quieter than the driveway.”I followed him—still tugged along by some strange insistence I didn’t understand—looking at Mr. Trung’s darkened trailer. No lights shone in the windows. Only

SIXTEENSomehow I made it in the house undetected. Dad had gone to bed, sleeping soundly as always. Amy hadn’t come home yet from hanging out with her friends. Mind and body numb, arms and legs limp, I managed to stow my bike against the garage, sneak inside without waking Dad up, and somehow crawl into bed without a sound.Believe it or not, I fell asleep almost instantly. I’d expended all my energy in my mad dash home. Overloaded, my mind also shut down. I burrowed deep into the covers, closed my eyes and dropped into the black abyss of sleep.But it was not restful.I dreamed. Worse yet, I couldn’t wake myself up. Instead of dreaming and jolting awake, my mind slogged through a nightmare that I couldn’t drag myself free of. A nightmare of being Jake and swinging at that stone chest under the gazebo in Mr. Trung’s flower garden . . .***I swing and swing, repeatedly hitting the lid to the stone chest under Mr. Trung’s pagoda, hating that goddamn gook bastard with every breath

EIGHTEENJake Burns was never seen in Clifton Heights again. The news broke in the churches that Sunday morning, the local pastors requesting prayer for James Burns because it appeared that his only son Jake had ‘run away.’ Kevin called me about it later that afternoon.Amazingly enough I felt nothing at all, initially. I’d returned from my journey along the railroad tracks Saturday exhausted, drained, my mind emptied. I passed a restful night after a quiet evening listening to old re-runs of The Shadow on AM radio while cooking hotdogs over the campfire with Dad and Amy.I knew Jake hadn’t run away (or at least I thought I did) but something had happened in my head on that long, mostly forgotten ramble along the railroad tracks. The terror had leaked away, leaving only vague images and impressions. I never shared with my friends what I thought I’d seen that night. I agreed with their assumption that Jake had finally decided to flee the domestic abuse all of us so tactfully never di