Bob pulled into the parking lot of his dad's old office. The office was situated in the back of the house. House was big enough that people would go in and out of that office in the back and you would never know it if you were in the front. He got out of the car and ran to the office door.

He banged.

No answer.

Banged louder.

The door opened to reveal Frankenstein himself. Greg.

Greg had the same dark hair and black eyes as Bob. That was where the similarities ended. Where Bob was average size with a medium build Greg was tall and lanky.

"Greg, I need your help."

Greg looked around suspiciously.

"Where are your minions?"

"I sent them away."

Greg raised his eyebrows.

"Alright. What is it?"

"The trunk. Hurry."

Greg followed Bob as he ran to the mustang.

Bob popped the trunk and revealed the unconscious body of a teenage boy. He had peeked Greg's interest.

"Is he…?"

"I don't know."

"Bring him in."

"I need help."

"No you don't, " Greg dismissed as he turned to walk back to the office. "He's not that big."

Bob reached in and picked him up. To his surprise and slight dismay, the kid was light enough for Bob to carry himself.

"Bring him to the main lab. First door on the right."

Once inside, Bob obeyed and laid him down on the examination table. Under the harsh fluorescents he could see how pale blue his skin was. He could also see how young he was.

He watched Greg checked his pulse. Pried open the eyelids and flashed a penlight into each one. Started CPR.

Bits and pieces from the night replayed in his head.

"Bob! Bob stop!"

"He's not moving."

"Where's his friend?"

"Taken care of."

"Everyone! In the car! Now!"

"The kid…."

"In the trunk! PUT THE KID IN THE TRUNK! GET YOUR ASS IN THE CAR! NOW"

As they all drove back to their side of town, the more they sobered up, the more hysterical everyone got.

"I knew that kid. He's on the track team!"

"We killed him!"

"What are we gonna do?"

Bob slammed the brakes.

"Everyone! Out of the car! I'll fix this!"

"How?"

"Listen to me, " he said, everyone huddled close around him inside the mustang. His eyes met every frightened pair of eyes that looked upon him. "Go home. As far as you all know we roughed up a couple of greasers and left them there."

"But…" Randy started to interject.

"We left them there!" Bob shot him a glance so intense it looked like Randy was about to shit his pants right there. He met everyone else's gaze. No one else was going to argue.

He hoped they would all stick to the story.

Greg was still working over the kid. Bob watched as he pumped and pumped the kid's chest. There appeared to be no response from the kid at all. Greg went back and pumped harder, put his head to the chest for a second, and let out a frustrated grunt. Finally he stopped and caught his breath.

He looked over at Bob.

"He's gone."

Bob swallowed to keep his face from crumpling.

"Gone."

Greg thinned his lips and nodded. He scrunched his brow and looked at Bob quizzically.

"Friend of yours?"

"No."

That seemed to add up in Greg's mind. Then it looked like he was doing more mental calculation as he looked at Bob. Probably trying to figure out if Bob decided to save some unfortunate random person he found or if Bob had another reason to have a stake in this person's welfare. Greg appeared to have his answer.

"Oh."

Greg turned back to the dead boy on the table.

Bob felt his blood turn to ice. He was not sure if he was going to throw up or pass out or both.

This was not supposed to happen.

Rough up the kid. Yeah.

Teach him to not talk to Cherry or any other girl from the west side. Yes.

But not this.

The more sober Bob became, the more he realized how young this greaser actually was. He didn't even look like he shaved yet.

He told Randy and his friends he would fix this. That's when he thought maybe the kid was alive. Maybe Greg would know something he didn't.

But how would he fix this?

"I'm gonna be sick." Bob went to run to the pail but Greg, without moving his gaze from the boy, picked up the small garbage pail under the examination table and shoved it at Bob. Bob proceeded to fill it with the contents of his stomach.

When he was done he looked over at Greg, who was examining the body and muttering to himself.

"No head trauma, that's good. Nasty bruise here, real nasty, but can work with it. He's young, juvenile…they tend to recover faster from injury in general. We just lost him….still within that time frame window in any case…"

Greg looked over at Bob with a gleam in his eye.

"I can help you."

Bob furrowed his brow. Help him what? Bury the body? Get out of town?

"I'll need a pint of your blood…"

Bob made a face and recoiled.

"For what? This greaser? No way!"

Greg turned around and walked over to Bob. He picked him up by the collar and brought him up to his eye level.

"Time is of the essence here so I will be quick."

"Dad is in Switzerland."

"Mom is 'away' taking care of Aunt Sylvia."

"You killed a kid."

"You could try to hide the body but you know one of your friends will crack and you're eighteen now sunshine so you will be executed once convicted.

"If you do get a hot shot lawyer to get you off this kid's family will find you and do things to you that would make you wish you had a death sentence.

"Considering your options, Robert, opening your vein for the benefit of a poor little dead boy hardly seems like a sacrifice, does it?"

Bob could only respond with a sullen stare.

Son of a bitch was right.

Son of a bitch was always right.

Bob grudgingly rolled up the sleeve of his madras shirt.