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bullies, he’d come to rely on his instincts. Right now, they were insisting that there was someone standing by the far end of the yard. He reached inside to flip on the floodlights, and for a moment he thought he’d seen a shadow retreat. He blinked and looked again.
    Nothing.
    His brow creased, but he couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him. There was no one on the lawn. Just jumpy , he told himself as he shut and locked the door. Some hero. With a sigh, he went into the family room to check on his grandfather.
    ***
    Outside, a woman in black stood beside a black horse. When the boy had paused to stare right at her, she had been sorely tempted to approach him. But it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
    The White Rider was beyond her reach.
    She clucked her tongue. “I’m getting as impatient as War,” she said, shaking her head.
    Next to her, the black horse snorted.
    “Well, I am.” She patted her steed’s neck. “You’ve known him longer than I. Will he make things right?”
    The horse cocked its head, considering the question. Finally, it lowered one ear, as if to say, “Maybe.”
    She fished out a sugar cube from her pocket. “I suppose I have to trust him,” she said, tossing the treat over the horse’s head. The black steed snapped its teeth and crunched sugar.
    Turning once more to face the boy’s house, Famine sighed. “I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”
    The black horse, still chewing, declined to comment.
    With a last look at the Ballard house, the Black Rider climbed atop her steed. Together, they disappeared into the night.

Chapter 4
    Billy’s in the Sandbox . . .
    . . . building castles and getting filthy and loving every second of it. It’s a gorgeous spring day, complete with blue skies and singing birds. Other kids are in the playground, too, but Billy doesn’t notice them.
    A cloud passes over him, and he sneezes, once.
    Five-year-old Billy scoops out more sand. He’s sniffling now, his nose leaking and his eyes watering. He barely notices; he just uses his shirt as a tissue and keeps on playing in the sandbox.
    The cloud doesn’t move.
    Something’s not right, he decides as he frowns at the hollow tower, but he can’t decide what it is.
    A shadow falls over him.
    “It won’t last,” says a man’s voice—
    ***
    —and Billy’s eyes snapped open. His skin too cold, his breathing too fast, Billy stared at the alarm clock on his nightstand, stared at it until he finally understood that he wasn’t in a sandbox but in bed. He’d had a dream, that was all.
    Thank you, God. I don’t want to remember the Ice Cream Man.
    The dream was already blowing away, dandelion fluff in the wind. He blinked until the numbers on his alarm clock registered, and then he let out a groan. 6:16 a.m. He could have stayed asleep for fourteen more minutes. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he’d come to appreciate the fine art of sleeping in—or, at least, of staying in bed. Especially on school days, like this one, Billy liked to stay hidden until the last possible second.
    The thought of going to school made it rain fire in his stomach.
    He burrowed under his blanket and stayed submerged in the muffled darkness, listening to the sound of his own breath. Today was what, Thursday? That meant two classes with Eddie Glass’s bruiser buddies, Kurt and Joe. Kurt had a laugh like a donkey’s bray. Billy knew the sound well; every time Kurt pushed Billy or shoved him, the boy would let out that obnoxious laugh. Joe wasn’t like Kurt. He was quiet. And mean. If Kurt tripped Billy, Joe would kick him when he was down.
    Billy’s gut twisted, making him curl up like a shrimp.
    He tried to focus on other things, like the biology class he shared with Marianne. But he kept coming back to Kurt in his English lit class and Joe in PE. What would today bring? Extended legs, tripping him in the aisle? Food spat into his hair? A fist in his face? Something worse?
    Billy’s stomach lurched, signaled one