“You’re on.”
Daniel’s phone lights up. He looks down at the screen and says, “Shit, bro.”
“What?”
“Graham Collins is calling.”
“Who’s Graham Collins?”
“He’s one of the guys who gave me the stolen bike. Shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t answer it.”
“I have to,” says Daniel. “They told me if I didn’t, they’d come to the house.” The air seems to deflate out of him as he takes the call and puts it on speaker. “Hi, Graham.”
“Little man,” says Graham. “We need your services tonight.”
“I’m in bed,” says Daniel. “I’m not allowed to go out after nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, that’s your problem,” says Graham. “We need you to start a fire for us.”
“What?” says Daniel. He looks over at Braedon, who shakes his head so hard it might pop off his neck.
“There’s some guys from Chatfield who are pissed and out looking for us. They’re driving a beat-to-shit Dodge Ram, and we need you to bring us some fire.”
“What? How am I supposed to bring fire? Like in a torch or something?”
“Not with a torch, you idiot. That would draw too much attention. Put some gas in a bottle, find an old rag, and matches or a lighter.”
“Like gas that goes in a car?” says Daniel.
Braedon watches his friend’s eyes dart back and forth in a pale, damp face.
“No, we want you to fart in a bottle. Yes, the kind of gas that goes in a car! Now quit screwing around. We’ll meet you in the parking lot behind the community center.”
Now Braedon is on his feet, standing on the sectional, shaking his head and waving his arms and mouthingNo way.
Daniel says, “I’m giving the bike back. I don’t want it. I can’t help you guys. I’m only twelve.”
“Dude,” says Graham. “You already took the bike. No give-backs. So bring us what we asked for, or we’re lighting your house on fire.”
The call ends, and Daniel looks up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?”
“You have to call the police,” says Braedon. “Or at least tell your parents.”
“No,” says Daniel. “They’ll kill me.”
“Who will kill you?”
“Everyone. Graham and those guys. My parents. And the police.”
“No they won’t,” says Braedon. “The police already know about the stolen bike. They won’t be mad.”
“If the police get into this, Graham will know it was me. And you don’t have to do anything. Just stay here. I can ride my bike down there, give them the stuff, and be back in half an hour. We have gas in the garage. And a bunch of empty bottles in the recycling bin. I’ll do this one thing for them and then I’ll be done.”
Braedon shakes his head. “It’s called a Molotov cocktail.”
“What is?”
