Rounding the corner onto Fernando’s block, Andy envisions hurling fistfuls of rocks and broken glass into Timo’s face. Throwing things, always his opening bid in a fight.

Whenever his brother and the guys throw down on a pack of cowboys or some jocks who have been talking too loud about their ragged jeans and torn Zeppelin Ts, he gets pumped to the gills with adrenalin, spazzes out, and runs ahead of the guys, hurling whatever comes to hand before lowering his head and throwing himself into whatever’s in front of him. And man, when his fist makes first contact, when a rock has actually bounced off some asshole’s forehead, for that split second, it’s the best feeling in the world. Then it all goes wrong. All the bloodlust, wanting to grab hair and yank it off along with bleeding bits of scalp, wanting to bite into the cheek of some dick twice as big as him, it goes sick inside him and his imagination takes over. What would happen if one of those rocks hit someone in the eye? What if he actually did bite through someone’s cheek, snapped the line of their lip? What if a lucky punch or kick shattered a bone and sent it splintering through skin?