Jimmy, laughing, charged down the steep, weedy hill, knowing the younger boy couldn't catch him. The boys were not brothers, but each was wearing his own brother's threadbare clothes. They'd been playing tag, fifteen-year-old James Waggner and thirteen-year-old Peter Kester, and Jimmy, small for his age, was enjoying the natural superiority of being the oldest. Scrambling, stumbling, Jimmy careened into a bush at the foot of the hill and, twisting as he fell, found himself suddenly sitting down. The bush had cushioned him, but his pride was wounded. Above him, hands on hips, atop Jackass Hill, Petey was laughing.

"Nice play, Shakespeare!" the kid called. Jimmy felt his face burn and he began to push himself up.

But his hand settled on something cold; at first he thought it was a tree limb, but his eyes told him it was another sort of limb altogether.

Jimmy shot to his feet; his heart was pounding; he tried to swallow.

Two legs extended from under the thicket. Their flesh was white, very white, above black shoes. The brush overtook the legs just above the knees, but everything you could see of this guy (and it seemed to Jimmy to be a man) was bare.

"Petey, get down here!"

"What is it? Ya tear your trousers or somethin'?"

"Get down here, I said!"

The younger boy made a face, then came scuffing down the hillside.

"What's the big deal, anyway?"

"That," Jimmy said, and pointed.

"What is it?" The boy was backing up; he stood somewhat behind Jim-my, peeking around.

"I think it's a dead guy," Jimmy said. "I'm takin' a closer look."