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the limp dog’s squat head.
    Another one came down, then another, over the fence. He saw the kid hop down with ease, vaulting himself over and landing in the front yard with a casual athleticism. The girl was with them, too, being helped over by the last of their cohort. Six in all stood in the front yard, looking around, searching around for the easiest way to get in.
    The girl needed some help getting her knife out so the big kid put his foot on the dog’s head and plucked it away like a hatpin and a geyser of blood painted the white shirt on his chest.

23:23
    HE WAS BACK.
    Down in the bare yard, he strutted like a peacock, pointing to various spots so his team could mount their assault. They fanned out obediently, well disciplined in their movements.
    He watched the boy’s arm make a flinging motion, hard and precise. Upstairs he heard something clatter against the front-facing attic wall.
    “Knock knock,” he bellowed. “Open the fuck up.”

23:24
    THE HARD, HOLLOW sound of the stones beating the exterior walls of the house paused for a few brief moments, only to be replaced by the sound of clambering hands and feet. The sounds of different hands gripping the bevels and awnings surrounded him; he could hear at least three. He knew the leader hadn’t been one of them; he knew that the little bastard was just standing there waiting for him to be dragged out, beaten into submission.
    He bit back the emotion welling inside of him, cursing himself for being so stupid and careless. It was his fault; he’d gotten the dog murdered from foolish neglect.
    He scooped up the heavy length of pipe he kept leaning in the umbrella stand and crept back upstairs, slowly as he could, and waited in the hall, listening to where they might finally breach. He wrenched it in his hands, listening to the pleasant friction of calloused skin on metal, awaiting revenge.
    On the wall of the house, he could hear their shoes crunching on the edges.
    The window in the bedroom exploded inward and something hit the hardwood floor and slid across the room. He could hear feet hitting the floor as he crept to the door, listening to see how many feet trod around the room.
    Just two. No voices.
    The lights all cut at the same time, though it would be no aid to them. He only kept the hall lights on if he could help it, and most of the windows had dark, opaque blinds. They couldn’t have been that stupid if they figured where to cut the lights.
    He waited for the feet to approach the doorway, then bashed it in as hard as he could with his shoulder, breaking the top hinge and sending the body tumbling to the floor. It was the big kid, the one who helped finish Obie.
    The hairs stood up on his arm as his body stiffened with hate and he abandoned his stealthy pattering.
    He thought of the dog, his friend, and ran a kick to the boy’s chest like he were kicking a field goal. He’d aimed for the head and missed.
    The boy swung up with the kick to a sitting position, then charged from the squat, crunching on the broken glass.
    He caught the kid blind, one rageful swing sent him flying into a dresser but not out cold like it should’ve. The kid took the hit from the pipe like a berserker, looking down at his bruised side and realizing he was meant to be in pain. The inside of his mouth was discolored from years of chewing the leaf; he had forgotten what pain was.
    Luis reminded him with the pipe, splitting his head open from the temple to the ear.
    The howled tunelessly and charged away from the splintered furniture, throwing his big body at the man and stampeding him into the opposite wall. The impact made Luis drop the pipe from his stiff hands, feeling his spine smack hard wood. If it were drywall the boy would’ve gored him right through it but real pine did not yield to the two crashing bodies.
    He flung the boy off and his side rippled with pain.
    “My dog,” he growled, “You killed him.”
    Gore ran down the boy’s torn ear and spread on his