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of the building.
    It was possible that he’d make it through the day without encountering Eddie at all. And if he was careful in gym, all that might happen was dealing with insults. He could handle that; he’d been called the worst of things ever since he was a kid.
    Insults were just words. And words could be ignored.
    Billy took a deep breath and started to get dressed, telling himself that nothing too bad would happen today.
    Liar , whispered a small voice in his head.
    That was okay; Billy was used to being called names, even when he was the one doing it to himself.
    ***
    “Keep it up!”
    Billy loathed the PE instructor almost as much as he despised Eddie Glass. The instructor was like a brick wall with overly large hands and a bullhorn voice, and he had a nasty habit of cracking his knuckles to punctuate his sentences. Like now: a resounding crack filled the gymnasium, the sound of spines breaking. Billy flinched; near him, Joe snorted. Of course he’d seen Billy’s involuntary cringe. Of course. Joe made sure that Billy was utterly miserable in PE, and not just because the instructor preached the gospel of sweat.
    The students were in a loose circle with one in the middle, all of them tasked with keeping the volleyball in the air—the middleman launched it, and the guys in the circle hit it back. Fingertips stretched high; forearms reached out. Sets and bumps all around as the ball hopped lightly from middle to circle to middle again. Calls of “mine” and “got it” echoed in the large gymnasium.
    The instructor bellowed, “If the ball touches the floor, it’s twenty pushups!”
    Now groans joined the possessive declarations. Billy, though, kept silent. Complaining about things didn’t make them go away. Eddie had taught him that a long time ago. More determined to keep the ball in play, he watched, his knees bent, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. He didn’t want to be the one who screwed it up. Let someone else be the target of derision for a change.
    Across from him, gangly Sean popped the ball up in a wide arc—overshooting Joe in the middle and heading toward Billy, but not close enough to reach. Billy jumped into the middle, fingers interlaced and his forearms out for a bump, his voice breaking as he shouted, “Got it!” The ball bounced solidly off Billy’s arms.
    He had a moment of sheer joy—he’d done it, he’d kept the ball in play—and then Joe shoved his elbow into Billy’s stomach.
    Blinding pain.
    Billy couldn’t stand. Couldn’t breathe. He dropped to the ground and wheezed for air, body bent double. Tried to crawl and couldn’t move.
    Around him, a flurry of movement. The ball was still in play.
    An eternity later, someone squatted next to him. Billy forced himself to look up into the instructor’s small eyes.
    “Get up,” he barked. “Don’t be such a girl.”
    Billy got up.
    ***
    Eventually, PE ended and Billy was released into the wild of the boys’ locker room. The agony in his gut had faded to a dull ache, just enough to slow him down to a shuffling walk. So much for zipping out of there before people realized he was gone. He clamped one hand to his side, which did nothing to stop his discomfort. Nasty bruise for sure. Maybe he was bleeding internally. Dead by sundown. That would be the end of Billy Ballard: done in by a sharp elbow and cruel coach. Rest in peace.
    He suddenly remembered the street musician from yesterday, remembered the way the pennies in the guitar case had shone, beckoning. Remembered how he was going to toss in some change.
    Remembered the cold bite of the musician’s fingers on his wrist.
    Billy shuddered, and he walked a little faster.
    When he finally reached his locker, he blinked at the messenger slip stuck jauntily on the metal door. Frowning, he removed the slip from his locker door. Just like the one from yesterday, this message was mostly faded to the point of obscurity; once again, only his name and a checked message were