Mike and Zac had coerced Scott into staying, and now had him handcuffed to the fireplace hearth that was the centerpiece of this part of the basement. Danny observed the proceedings, not sure if he should step in, if Jackson was going to let it go as far as it did. Not until he saw Scott yank at the bond and saw how Jackson rose up from his crouch in front of the younger boy with that self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face did he realize that Jackson had, once again, gotten exactly what he wanted.

The fireplace burned natural gas and, to the best of Danny's knowledge, was never used. The Whittemores had it installed for aesthetic purposes only. It was a curious choice for whatever Jackson planned to do to Scott, which begged the question of whether Jackson had a different purpose in mind for the structure than gathering the guys around to roast marshmallows and sing corny songs. While the trials the first liners went through at these post-State celebrations could be humiliating—Danny couldn't help cringing at what he'd seen before—they had never crossed the line into being dangerous. Then again, Jackson had never hid his loathing for Scott. Danny headed across the room. If he could do nothing else, it was stand between Jackson and the switch on the wall that turned the fireplace on.

But Jackson didn't go that direction. He sauntered to where the guys had clustered near the bottom of the stairs, and looked to be giving them directions. Only Mike and Zac had stayed behind, apparently assigned to guard duty. They flanked Scott, their arms crossed in a pose that spoke of too many bodyguard movies.

Danny took a deep breath and strode over to the cluster as if he was supposed to be there all along. No one objected when he pushed through the group so that he stood at the front, facing the one person he had called best friend.

"…dog bowl," he heard Joaquin say.

"Yeah, yeah," a junior, Taylor, replied. Taylor was the tallest member of the team, beating Danny by a good two inches. Standing next to him was a strange experience; Danny wasn't used to being shorter than people. "That'll be good. We can make him drink beer out of it." He sniggered at his own cleverness, then took a swig from the bottle he held. If his beer had been tampered with, he gave no hint of it.

"Where are we going to get all these things? We need a plastic bowl and slippers and…what else?" Brian asked. He looked at Jackson, obviously meaning the questions for him. He was crouched slightly, standing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn't wait to get to the activity. The glaze in his brown eyes had picked up a spark that scared Danny.

"What did I miss?" Danny asked, looking around the circle of guys. They were all flushed with excitement and alcohol, and all had put on their jerseys in the last few minutes. One of Danny's eyebrows twitched at this recognition. No one had given him the memo to dress, which was a not-so-subtle sign of his exclusion. What he didn't know was if his being left out was an award for playing well or a sign of a much bigger problem. The team had never turned on him. That didn't mean they wouldn't. There had always been a part of him that wondered if the team's acceptance of his sexuality was because of Jackson's power.

"We're working out some details," Jackson replied dismissively. "Don't worry," he continued, addressing Brian directly. "I know where we can get everything." A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips, then held up a hand, stilling the others. "We have to be careful. Don't push him too hard."

"Why not?" Joaquin challenged. Jackson shot him a withering glare, but Joaquin didn't back down. His face was flushed dark and his short black hair stuck out from his head like he'd been rubbing his sweaty hands through it all night. All the other guys nodded. Each of them had been through a similar experience and, Danny knew, each of them were using their memories of it to fuel their own actions now.

Danny was guilty of far more hazing than he was sometimes comfortable with. But, that was part of being on the team. It's what made them a team, brought them together. At least, that's what he'd always believed. Now he had to wonder. When he'd been inducted onto the first line the previous year, it had been shortly after he'd come out. He'd owned the one thing anyone had tagged as making him a mark. The boys had effectively had their ammunition neutralized and they had been next-to-helpless in coming up with more. For all the things they could have done to him, making him wear a dress and makeup for a couple of hours had hardly been worth thinking about. Maybe if his own initiation hadn't been so tame, he would have developed problems with the tradition sooner. Or maybe it wasn't the tradition that was the problem so much as the person leading the charge. He caught Jackson's eye.

"You got a minute?" Danny asked, tipping his chin toward his friend. He kept his expression neutral, not wanting to alert the guys to the possibility that he wasn't on board with their plans.

Jackson wasn't so easily fooled. His blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and he looked for a moment like he was going to tell Danny to shove off, then he smiled, "Always for you."

"This isn't cool," Danny said, when the two boys got far enough away that they wouldn't be overheard. From his angle, he could still see Scott, who was bent at the waist like he was trying not to throw up, his head buried in his hands. The younger boy was breathing deep and slow and he looked like he was trying to be oblivious to what was going on, but wasn't succeeding.

Jackson spun to walk away; Danny caught him with a restraining hand on his arm. Jackson flinched and yanked the arm away like the touch had hurt him.

"What did Scott do to you? Did he turn you down? Break your heart?"

"Break my…" Jackson's face flushed red, the color changing subtly as his emotions went from initial embarrassment to a much deeper upset as he caught up with the insinuation. "Why would you think…?"

"Hey, I'm hardly the one to judge," Danny said, holding his hands up defensively. He wasn't immune from crushing on guys who were completely wrong for him, and Jackson knew about every single one. "If Scott's what does it for you right now, then hey. That doesn't give you any right to treat him like this."

"You think Scott should get special privileges? That he should be exempt from what the rest of us had to go through? That he's more special than the rest of us?" Jackson huffed, his nostrils flaring in anger. "He's not that good a player."

Danny gusted out a breath. Scott was that good a player. Everyone on the team knew it. Hell, that's why Coach had promoted him to co-captain. Jackson's refusal to acknowledge Scott's strengths should be Jackson's problem, but he'd effectively made it a team issue. Not that Scott had done much to mitigate it. "It's not the initiation," Danny replied. "It's not even what you're planning to do. It's what you've already done." He pulled the baggie out of his pocket and held it out for Jackson to see. If Danny had any doubts, they were erased when he saw the utter lack of surprise in Jackson's eyes.

"Where did you find that?"

"It doesn't matter. I want to know what happened to you. Jackson Whittemore, my best friend, isn't this kind of guy. This," he said, waving the baggie, "is going too far. I want to know what you think he did to you that pushed you to this."

"That's not what you think it is," Jackson replied. He tried to grab the baggie from Danny's hand, but Danny was too fast. He tucked the bag back into his pocket and side-stepped Jackson's second swipe. He was bigger than Jackson by several inches and a score of pounds, and he wasn't afraid to remind Jackson that, if it came to a wrestling match, Danny would win. He wasn't the kind of guy one would pick for throwing his weight around, but that didn't mean he couldn't.

"You haven't answered my question. What did Scott do to you?" Over the past two days, he'd had plenty of opportunity to witness Jackson and Scott together in close proximity. What he'd seen was a side of Jackson he didn't know existed, one that was fawning and oddly thoughtful. He'd never seen Jackson crush that hard over anyone. The strange thing was that Jackson had seemed oddly oblivious to his actions, and that was when Danny really started to understand that his friend had changed. What he still couldn't figure out was why.

Jackson scoffed, still incredulous. "McCall?"

"Uh-huh," Danny replied.

"You think I have a crush on Scott?"

Danny raised an eyebrow in silent response.

"Did you miss the fact that I've been dating Lydia for a year?"

"I didn't miss the fact that you broke up with her a month ago," Danny countered, echoing Jackson's phrasing in order to emphasize his point.

"You really think that I have a thing for McCall?" Jackson asked, obviously horrified at the accusation.

Danny shrugged. "If I'm wrong, correct me."

Jackson made another swipe for the baggie. He succeeded in catching at the plastic, but Danny's reflexes were well trained and he caught the bag before Jackson could get a good grip on it. The plastic stretched in the brief struggle and Jackson's fingernails punctured a small hole in it. A sprinkling of the herb spilled onto Jackson's hands before Danny could fold the baggie on itself and get it shoved all the way in his pocket, out of Jackson's reach. "You have no idea what you're talking about," Jackson spat. He wiped off his hands, sending flakes of herb to the carpet that covered the basement floor.

"This isn't you," Danny protested.

"Maybe you just don't know me very well," Jackson shot back.

Danny flinched. He was beginning to suspect that there was a lot more truth to that statement than there should be. "If you have a problem with Scott, this is not the way to deal with it. Have you tried talking to him?"

Jackson scowled. "Butt out, Danny. You don't know what's going on."

Danny shut his eyes briefly, seeking strength behind his eyelids. There was a time, not too long ago, that Jackson would not have been able to make that accusation. Jackson had always made sure that Danny was in the loop, sometimes even when Danny didn't feel any need to be. This time, though… Jackson had lost touch with more than his sense of right and wrong. "I know more than you might think," Danny replied.

Jackson contemplated him, obviously trying to assess what Danny did and didn't know. The problem was, Danny wasn't sure either. He turned aside with a scoff and a shake of his head, apparently deciding that Danny didn't know anything worth worrying about.

"You've changed, Jackson. Last few weeks, you've become a different person. Someone I can barely recognize. You still look like my best friend, but this anger … that didn't used to be part of you. Talk to me. Is it Lydia? Is it lacrosse? Are you pissed that Coach gave the award to Scott?"

Jackson snorted, his eyebrows jumping up to his hairline in sudden mirth. "The MVP? You think I'm upset about McCall getting the MVP?" He started to laugh as if Danny had just told him that Coach was quitting coaching to take up synchronized swimming. Danny recognized that laugh; he'd struck a nerve.

"Enlighten me," Danny challenged. He could sense a crack in Jackson's determination, perhaps a chance to bring his friend back.

The crack sealed over almost immediately. Jackson's eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "Maybe you should stay out of the way tonight," he said in a tone that only sounded like a suggestion. "Let me deal with McCall. I can handle him."

Danny rubbed his knuckles over his mouth while he sized up the situation. His mom had a saying that Danny had seen validated all too often: if the picture doesn't make sense, it's because you don't have all the pieces of the puzzle. Danny was missing pieces. What had appeared to be a revenge game for a thwarted crush had to be more; he just didn't know how. What he did know is Jackson had already crossed the line and he seemed determined to stay on the wrong side, unless Danny could figure out how to drag him back. Or decide if he was worth dragging back. Finally, Danny spread his hands in a gesture of capitulation, though it wasn't a position he meant.

Jackson was too focused on his own agenda to notice Danny's lack of sincerity. "I knew I could count on you," he said. He clapped Danny on the shoulder in a familiar move that made Danny's chest ache with hurt, then turned to go back to devising new torments for Scott.

Danny chewed on his lower lip as he watched Jackson go. After all the years he had known Jackson, he never thought his friend would turn into such a stranger. He thought he knew everything there was to know about the guy, that he had made peace with even Jackson's negatives. He never thought that he wouldn't have noticed his best friend spinning out of control until it got to this point.

Scott smelled Danny's approach, the scent of heat making a new line of sweat break out across Scott's upper lip. He wiped it away with his free hand, and kept the hand in place near his mouth to hide the teeth that were trying to break through. The dirty and scuffed sneakers that appeared in his line of sight swam in and out of focus. Scott blinked several times before the image stabilized.

"You don't have to do this," Danny said. Unlike Jackson, he didn't crouch down. Danny stood over Scott, his concern pouring down to envelope his teammate.

Scott shook the arm with the handcuff on it, giving the chain a good rattle. "It's too late to back out now."

Danny regarded him silently for a long moment, then asked the one question Scott hadn't been anticipating. "Would you, if you could?"

Scott had to think about that. Like Danny's shoes, the answer wavered and he couldn't seem to catch a definitive yes or no out of his thoughts. As strongly as one part of him said that he should have left a long time ago, another kept reminding him that he'd made it this far without serious problem. If he could just last a little longer…. His canines pressed on the inside of his lips, almost enough to draw blood, then abruptly retracted.

Danny sighed, as if Scott's silence was acquiescence, or an admission of defeat. As if he'd expected no other response. "That's why this party is a tradition. None of us are strong enough to be the first to say no."

Scott nodded and risked peeking up. He was fairly sure that his eyes were normal. If Danny saw anything he shouldn't, he didn't react. Danny had one hand shoved his pocket, his fist balled up, the outlines of his knuckles showing through the denim. He put his other hand over his mouth in an unconscious mirroring of Scott's pose. They stayed like that for a solid minute. No one interrupted them, or even appeared to notice them. Jackson and the other boys were still plotting; Scott could hear their plans clearly, though even that sense wasn't processing correctly and he felt himself starting to grow frustrated at the confusion of noises and talk.

"It's too late," Danny said.

Scott's brow furrowed at the odd comment. He shifted his position on the hearth, the bricks under where he had been sitting having grown uncomfortably warm. The edge of coolness in his new location soaked up through his jeans and stabilized him somehow, and he realized that what Danny had actually said was "It's not too late." He'd heard it all wrong.

"You have the keys?" he asked, rattling his wrist one more time for emphasis.

"I can get them," Danny replied. "Say the word."

Danny sounded so sincere, like he wanted to beg Scott to be the one to break the tradition, yet couldn't bring himself to beg. For a split second, Scott wanted to give him that. Then he heard the hitch in Danny's heartbeat, the slight hike in blood pressure between the lub and the dub, and he lowered his head. "No," Scott replied. "It's OK."

"Scott…." Danny said, a note of warning creeping into his voice. "He wants to hurt you."

"No," Scott replied, the insight into Jackson's behavior coming suddenly. "He wants to punish me." He wants to punish me for having what he can't have, he thought.

Danny's heartbeat slowed and Scott could practically hear him turning the conversation over in his mind. "I guess…" Danny started.

Before he could continue, a sharp pain twisted through Scott's abdomen. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach as best he could. His teeth reemerged as he went over and he bit his tongue. The metallic taste brought forth a rush of saliva. He swallowed hard.

Danny's shoes were gone.

The cluster of boys had broken up. They were now positioned around him. He smelled the sharp bite of newsprint and heard the slowly increasing thumping of their hearts. The combined arrhythmic patter drowned him, cutting off his ability to think.

"That's more like it," Scott heard the dead rabbit say. Its empty eyesockets and mummified jaw had lain in the newly turned earth, and his breath had been stolen away. His lungs had seized up; he'd gasped for air, unable to find any, and fallen to his knees in the damp dirt. He had been gasping for air, then, unable to draw a breath. In the now, his lungs worked but the smells saturating the musty air were foul. He whipped his head around, trying to find air worth breathing, and heard derisive laughter.

A rolled up newspaper slammed into the side of his head, knocking it back. "Stay!" He couldn't tell who said it. A new wave of laughter welled up from the waiting boys.

"I don't think he can be trained," someone commented.

A white plastic dog bowl was dropped in front of him. The amber liquid that filled it sloshed over one side and beaded onto the carpet.

"Doggie needs to relax," someone else replied. "He needs more to drink."

"And then he'll start tripping over his own ears." The person who said this chuckled, a dark and hateful sound.

Scott's head was pushed down, his whole body forcibly shoved over. The collar yanked on his neck as he went down, landing hard on the tightly woven carpet. More beer sloshed into the weave. The droplets quivered on top of the carpet, unable to soak in or disperse. From this close, Scott could see small particles floating in the liquid. He fought to turn his head away, to not have his face land in the dog bowl, to keep the liquid away. He didn't know what those particles were, but instinct told him they were bad.

His chin hit the side of the bowl, upending it. Beer splashed onto his face, got into his eyes. He swiped at it with his free hand. In the few drops that landed on his lips, he could feel the burn. He sputtered. Another hard slap of rolled up newspaper hit his hunched shoulder, accompanied by a reprimand he couldn't understand. He couldn't understand anything they were saying. All he could smell was antagonism and challenge. He understood challenge. He rocked to his knees, pulling on the bonds that restrained him. Metal dug into his wrist as corollary metal scraped across cement. The nylon cord started to stretch.