Andy starts running, Hector riding ahead of him.

George lifts his head from the pavement. He can feel the scrapes on the side of his neck. He wants to turn his head to check on his bike, but he can’t take his eyes off of Fernando Arroyo as he climbs out the open door of the parked Impala.

Paul jumps off his bike and lets it run into the ice plant bordering the driveway at the house next to Fernando’s, leaving Timo to ride up onto his brother’s porch and straight into the house. Running to his best friend, he’s forced to pull up as Ramon emerges from the driver’s side of the Impala.

Fernando looks down at George, takes a hit off the joint he and his brother have been smoking in the car.

– You fucking with my little brother, Whelan?

George is still seeing the primer spotted hood of the El Camino scraping past him. One of Fernando’s shiny black shoes smacks him in the thigh.

– I say, you fucking with my little brother, puta?

Standing on the opposite side of the car, Paul sees that Hector was right about Ramon; he’s fucking huge. His sweat stained wifebeater is stretched tight over mounds of jailhouse muscle covered in jailhouse tattoos. He’s come out of the car armed, the hacksaw, his weapon of choice, dangling from loose fingertips.

Eyes hidden behind wraparound black shades, Ramon waves the rusty bladed saw conversationally.

Timo comes strolling back out of the house.

– Fuck ’em up, bro.

Ramon shakes a finger at him.

– Settle down, ese. Don’t be getting all bloodthirsty right after running away and shit. Don’t look good.

He smiles at Paul.

– So, big Paul Cheney. What’s up, man? You wanna fight?

Paul blinks, looks from Ramon’s face to the saw.

– Drop the saw, I’ll fight.

Ramon looks at the saw, points at it with his free hand.