Harnack pressed forward and threw a succession of jabs, which Raynor easily avoided. Then, out of nowhere, as he dodged his opponent’s fist, Raynor took a skull-splitting wallop to the back of the head. What the hell? He instantly reached back to confront his new attacker, finding instead a sizzling hot metal bar. He glanced behind him. Harnack had backed him into the truck’s side mirror!

As Raynor turned again toward his foe, the kid flashed a gleeful smile before delivering a flurry of punches, most of which Raynor was able to block with wrists and forearms as he put his chin down and danced away.

“Come back here!” the red-haired boy demanded. “Come back and fight, you fekkin’ dirt-pusher!”

That was when Raynor saw Harnack squint and realized that the sun was shining in his opponent’s eyes. Raynor shifted his position slightly until he was sure Harnack was blinded by the glare, planted his feet, and threw a quick jab. The other teenager could see well enough to know something was coming his way, and raised his arms to defend against it. That opened his midriff to an attack, and Raynor was there to deliver a solid right punch to the gut. Three alternating blows, each powered by strong farm-boy shoulders, hammered Harnack’s stomach like pile drivers.

The Harnack kid grunted as the air left his lungs, then he clutched his stomach, dropped to the ground, and vomited on the pavement. A cheer erupted as the locals celebrated a victory by one of their own, and a few of the adults stepped in to drag the bully away from the mob of youths that had closed in and was shouting slurs and threats.

Raynor started walking toward his truck—he just wanted to climb in and shut the door so nobody would notice that he was a little rattled from the fight—but Omer intercepted him. “Good fight, man.” he said as he shook Raynor’s hand. “That was killer.”