Don Weinberg stood in the middle of the paved playground and silently debated whether to light up or not. Surrounding him was a confusing amalgamation of painted lines and borders that would only make sense to eight year olds. He pulled the Luckies from his leather coat pocket and then thought better of it. The red-bricked school sat lazily before him, a hundred feet away. It loomed over the playground like some wicked witch surveying her Oz-like territory. For the first time that day, Weinberg felt scared.

He walked slowly over to the nearest window and peered in. It was impossible to see anything but a black zone that had to be a blackboard; the letters of the alphabet that circled the walls of the room in an endless race; anonymous desks and chairs. He knew the room well enough, for it used to be his fifth grade classroom. Twenty years later, the desks seemed to be in the same positions, the faded yellow letters sadly remained.

(the exhausted huff-puff of a scared kid, running not to beat the devil, but something worse, a gang of bullies. the devil never chased you around the school until your legs were spaghetti and your heart was a crazed ape trying to escape his cage)

Weinberg flinched, and checked the scene around him. Nothing. A quiet Sunday morning in September. Still, his hand sought the comforting reassurance of the gun in his inside pocket. Inside, though, he knew that a gun was help only to the earthbound.

He checked his watch. Two minutes to ten. A quarter of an hour to recess. There were no sounds in the air save the ominous rumblings of an approaching storm. The school was on the outskirts of the small town he lived in, Chapleau. The school was at the end of a gravel road, and during the fall, there was always a dusty haze blanketing the road. The paved playground area, with no swings, no seesaws, no slides, and no merry-go- rounds, covered the modest area of a football field. There were two sets of basketball hoops, but the whole playing field, where all the kids streamed out of the school like blood from an artery, was completely and utterly paved. God only knew how many scrapes and cuts and bruises had resulted from this idea, but Weinberg reasoned that there must have been some sadistic school superintendent. And because it was paved, you ran from the bullies like anything.

(high-pitched giggling from behind, and the kid ran faster, because that giggling didn't sound human, it sounded hyper-crazy, and the kid just didn't need a face-rub right now, and for the hundredth time, he wished he was running on soft grass)

Weinberg's grip tightened on the revolver. He quickly surveyed the barren landscape, a frozen lake with the souls of forgotten memories trying to break through the ice, to live, to breathe. Time decided to rest for a while.

As a young boy, Weinberg had been small for his age. Small, thin, but he was given speed, the speed of an outfielder, a wide receiver, an Olympic sprinter. And he had needed that speed, because the face-rub was the most feared outcome of any encounter with the bullies.

(they were the Ryan gang, and they were all big, tough, and Neanderthal- like, but as with all small-town school bullies, they were cunning, and it was their leader, Dennis, who came up with the face-rub)

Don Weinberg pressed his back to the wall, the memory he had successfully hidden from himself returning like a tidal wave that had been held back for centuries.

(it was little Jimmy, Jimmy Fallbrook, and the Ryan gang had surrounded him before he could move, and they grabbed him and pulled him out into the middle of the playground. no teachers in sight, and Dennis Ryan threw Jimmy to the dark jungle floor. Jimmy was crying to beat the waterworks, and Ryan yelled something triumphant, and, with both hands, clutched Jimmy's head. he pushed it into the unforgiving asphalt and rubbed it as hard as he could. Jimmy screamed, the Ryan gang cheered with sadistic delight, the teacher's whistle blowing as Mrs. Beliveau came running, but it was all over except the bleeding)

Don rubbed his left knee, still feeling some pain after twenty years. The gun felt warm against his side. The wind began to pick up, and he shivered. Clouds began to cover the sun in layers. Don checked the time and his watch blinked at him: 10:13 a.m. Two minutes until recess. Two minutes for another kid's terror to start. Two minutes

(until the bell rings, and the kid knows, she knows that the Ryan gang wants to chase her to the ends of the asphalt and drag her away, and perhaps they would want to touch her. touch her in places only she knew, and that frightened her even more. she looked to the back of the room, where Ryan was staring at her with a scary obsessiveness. it was going to hurt, she knew, and she was going to cry, but can you stop a runaway train with only your bare hands)

and Weinberg was surveying the playground constantly now, anxiously waiting for that bell, that death-knell that always rung no matter what day it was or what year it was. He remembered last night, how his eight-year old son had cried as he told him awful things, awful things about the playground, about chases, about the asphalt.

(she started in surprise when the bell rang, and she hurried out the door, hoping for a head start. two of the gang blocked her exit, but let her by, only to follow her. shock and dismay dulled her fear, and she walked sullenly down the hall, aware that her fate was already written, she would have to fill it out. she stepped into the sunshine that was quickly disappearing. clouds were forming, dark clouds, and the morning recess was getting worse every minute. they were right behind her, but did not expect her to run)

Don Weinberg closed his eyes, wanting to cry as the memories opened. The pain was written on the folds of his heart, as the rain began to fall on the folds of his jacket.

(as she began to run, the rain commenced falling, and she hoped for a head start once more. the Ryan gang did not dawdle, and in a matter of seconds had caught up to her. Ryan grabbed her long blonde hair and yanked back. she fell to the ground. her thoughtstream rushed by: oh god no i dont want this to happen my face the blood my hair it hurts what did i do what can i do hope what else)

(Mike emerged from the darkening rain, with little Donny by his side. leave her alone, Mike said, and Ryan turned in surprise. what did you say, twerp? leave her alone, ass-wipe. Ryan spoke not a word. he simply looked at Mike and Donny and nodded. they left her to cry)

Weinberg opened his eyes to find the playground full of children running, playing, laughing, talking. He opened his mouth to scream, his hand feeling for the gun, when he saw two kids come running from around a corner. Another group of boys followed. Don Weinberg's heart in his throat blocked the scream.

(Mike and Donny ran to survive, to live yet another day. the best friends swerved in and out of the strands of children with the uncanny agility and instincts of eight year olds. the Ryan gang lumbered behind with a machine-like tediousness. they began to make some distance between them and the enemy, and Mike laughed believing they were going to get away with it. Donny thought they passed by this adult in a jacket, and turned his head to call for help, but there was no one. his head came around in time to see himself trip over some small little boy. Mike yelled something, and Donny cried out in surprise. his unprotected left knee slammed down on the pavement, and Donny screamed. he fell flat on his face, and he knew he was face-rubbed for sure. Mike's hand appeared. Donny took it. he was pulled up, and they ran. the pain was huge, unyielding)

The man in the jacket, standing in the empty playground, began to run.

(Ryan saw the skinny kid go down, and he smiled. things were finally going to go his way. but then the other kid stopped and helped him out, and Ryan grinned. they're both face-rubbed, he thought, and his mood improved greatly)

The rain was falling heavily. His legs moved like an outfielder's.

(Mike was pulling him along, and Donny was even more scared now. he was scared because Mike had this wild look in his eyes like never before. he was scared because he had seen this guy in a jacket again, but he wasn't there. he was scared because the gang was catching up to them, and it was because Donny was hurting. he was scared because that wild look reminded him of this actor he had seen once, this actor named Jack Nicholson, and it wasn't good at all. they ran completely around the school. jumping and weaving and skirting, Donny knew he couldn't last. they both heard Ryan scream, and god he was close)

Weinberg ran, because he knew where they would end up, and he wound his way through the kids like an eight year old. The gun was useless, he knew that.

(they had turned their heads to look. Donny was the first to turn back. he cried out)

Weinberg saw it coming and slowed, the tears flowing.

(through the rain it was hard to see. Mike heard Donny's cry. he turned back. he smashed)

Donny Weinberg screamed.

(head-first into the basketball pole)

(no mike no my god mike this is not real)

The ghosts surrounded the glowing form of Don Weinberg's former best friend.

(Mike staggered back, falling into a heap. blood flew up and Donny had a quick vision of Mike's soul flying with the blood and then Mike hit the ground. through the screams and cries, Donny knew his best friend was dead)

The children in the playground faded, all except the Ryan gang. They appeared to be dazed, uncomprehending. Weinberg knew this was the time.

(Ryan became aware of the man in the jacket and turned to meet him. recognizing Donny, Ryan nodded. we're not done here, are we)

No, Weinberg whispered. We aren't.

The clouds thundered, and the air felt electric. Don fell to his knees, his hands reaching out to touch the ethereal form of Mike Peltier.

Lightning struck.

Don Weinberg stood by his son's bed. He was sleeping peacefully, but woke slowly. Seeing his father, he blinked. For a moment, his dad looked... faded. He blinked again, and this time his dad was solid. The young boy raised his arms. They hugged fiercely.

It's done, whispered the father. It's done. His eight year old child smiles, and says proudly, thanks, dad.

No more running.