Following Aaron through a normal day in his life, as seen from multiple bystander points of view (six different POVs in all). Everybody has a different perspective on the protagonist, and on life in general. Long chapter, but one of my personal favorites. I really appreciate reviews!

—- — —-

A quiet, frantic voice spoke rapid Vietnamese in the back of his mind, every minute, every hour, every day. Clouding up his world with smoke never completely hushed the voice. In fact, smoking heavily brought Charles back to the war. He remembered the gun blasts, the smoke and fire, the shouts and cries. He was somehow addicted to the memories. They invigorated him, reminded him of his one-time purpose in life.

They also angered him. The more time Charles spent in the past, reviewing battles in his mind, the more he wanted to change history and fight back to win for himself. Charles had been considered a deserter when he returned to the States. Now he knew he should have never stopped fighting. He should have killed everybody in that whole jungle of a country.

That boy across the room was too sure of himself. He acted like he could win any fight. Charles had to teach him. He had to show him who had the right to win. And he had to punish him, for surely this boy sat back and laughed along with the rest of his generation while Charles' comrades ran to their bloody deaths.

This fight was Charles' fight. Nobody could say he walked away from the challenge, not when he commanded the boy's attention and fought him into submission. Who's the better fighter now? Who's laughing now?

The boy was a rebel. He had long ago learned not to fight back, but still he tested Charles' patience by refusing to be defeated. That was unacceptable. He had to pay!

"Where were you when I was suffering?" Charles wanted to know. "Where were you when so many of us fought in a strange land?"

"I wasn't born yet!" didn't qualify as an answer. Charles wanted the truth. And he would get the truth, no matter how many battles it took, no matter how often the boy slipped out of consciousness in an outrageous attempt to forgo the fight.

"Stand up and fight like a man!" Charles roared.

The woman came between them. "Let him be. It's only seven in the morning, and I need him able to run an errand for me after school."

Charles held back another onslaught. The woman bent over the floor and yanked the boy up by his arm.

"Get moving, Aaron. Here's my grocery list, and here's the money you'll need. After school, go directly to the store and... Aaron! Listen to me!"

The boy took forever getting off the floor and focusing his attention. Charles believed they were wasting time. The woman should leave them alone and let him finish this important fight against ignorance. How could she expect the boy to complete an honest task for her if he couldn't even admit to standing by callously while thousands of men went to their deaths?

"I'm trusting you with more than you're worth," the woman went on. "If anything goes wrong, if you betray me, if you don't come back with everything on that list..." She made a very threatening gesture.

The boy nodded. He stood unsteadily and took the list and the money. His mother returned to the stoic baby in the high chair.

"We're not finished!" Charles snapped, fist shaking in the boy's face.

"You are for now," said the woman calmly as she scooped some liquidy food into the baby's mouth. "Lay off him, will you? He doesn't know any better. And don't forget, you have an appointment with the oncologist this afternoon."

Ignoring her, Charles knew would not rest until he had won every fight he attempted. He lit up a cigarette and breathed in the smell of wartime.

Through a distant fog, Charles remembered a colorful house in Boston with an overbearing mother and an absent father. Charlie never played with his sisters. He was busy playing King of the Hill with every boy on his street, and fighting them when he didn't get to be king. In every boy he beat up, he saw his own father, a man who walked out before Charlie learned to walk. Some said Charlie was a born fighter. He knew better: he was a born vindicator.

Charles never knew why he joined the war or why they were even fighting. He was simply drawn to any call of war, and he savored every chance to do battle with anyone and anything that came in his way. Charles released torrents of anger during the war, but, inexplicably, he came home angrier than ever. Nobody understood. That made everybody his enemy.

The boy finished his toast and overcooked egg and pulled a holey, shrunken green sweater that must have been his father's over his stained white T-shirt. Then he ran for the door.

Charles ran to intercept him.

The boy was faster, and he twisted the doorknob before his feet caught up with the rest of him. He threw his weight against the door and tumbled out into the coldest autumn day yet to hit this sour town. Charles caught the door behind him and lunged forward, but he stopped himself in the doorway. The world was now watching. The boy had made it past the barrier of privacy and made their war public.

Arms crossed over his chest and head down, he ran through an inch-thick carpet of snow and a wave of bitter wind. He didn't look back but just continued running as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Charles watched him go, and he remembered his own father running away from him, always running from a fight. He felt hated and abandoned again, again, again.

Charles slammed the door and started pacing. The fight had not left him, but it had exhausted him. This disease in his lungs threatened to pull him out of the running once and for all. Although he had sworn to fight, though he trained every day, he felt hopelessly like he had already lost.

—- —- —

The snow seemed to be falling extra early this year. Jessica Brooks scanned the pretty white coating on the school as she arrived with Haley.

"We should have gotten a snow day," sighed Jessica. "This would be the perfect day to stay at home and bake pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"Are you kidding?" Haley spread her arms and gazed up at the deep white sky. "Nothing's better than dancing in the snow."

"Let's boycott school and have a snow day all to ourselves!"

But they were already on school grounds. Groups of teenagers, all warmly dressed and layered against the cold, rushed up the wide front steps to get inside. Those who lingered outside had declared snowball war. Jessica wanted to join the fight, but she knew Haley didn't like to get wet.

Too bad for Haley.

Jessica ran right into the middle of the skirmish, hollering nonsense and trading round, icy missiles with her instant foes. Her friends from science club ganged up on her, and soon she had snow in her mouth, in her coat, and in her hat. That didn't stop her for long.

"Jessie!" Haley yelled. "I'm going inside whether you're coming or not!"

"You do that, Hal." Jessica landed a blow using her sister's least favorite nickname. Before she knew it, Haley was her fully initiated opponent in the fight.

The bell soon rang and everybody scattered. Haley suddenly stopped peppering Jessica with snow and looked up at the shrubbery-lined street.

"There he is," she muttered.

"Who?" Jessica asked, though she already knew.

Haley brushed herself off and hurried over the snowbank next to the sidewalk to greet the lone student. Jessica groaned a little. Ever since Haley ran off with that uncoordinated fourth pirate, her attention to her younger sister went below deck. Jessica missed the days when they only talked about meeting boys, and Haley trusted Jessica with her list of favorite traits. As it turned out, Aaron failed to match up with more than three quarters of the traits on Haley's list (no shaggy blond hair, no beautiful singing voice, etc.), but Haley didn't seem to care anymore. She saw something special in Aaron, something that Jessica and her friends could never see, no matter how hard they tried.

"Are you warm enough?" Jessica heard Haley ask. She looked back at the walkway leading to the front steps to watch her sister and her sister's friend. Aaron wore a thin, old, green cable knit sweater with no jacket. He rubbed his arms and blew on his hands. His face and ears were rosy from the wind.

"Actually I'm okay," he said. He smiled at her. "I'm warm now."

Jessica rolled her eyes. Oh. My. Word. Can you say cheesy!

"Come on, you two!" she called, waving her arm. "I'm not going to wait for you."

"That's fine. Go inside," said Haley, already bitten by the Annoying Sister Bug that often flew close to Aaron.

"Actually, I will wait," Jessica mumbled, arms crossed. She stood on the steps, waiting for the two lovebirds to hurry up the walkway. They were whispering together, but their faces were serious. With every step they took, all Jessica could think was Gag. Gag. Gag.

At last they were inside, and now Jessica felt like a baked potato wearing her purple winter coat in the overheated building. She slipped her hat, mittens, and coat off as she ran down the hallway, calling, "We're late! I can't believe we're late!"

Usually that was Haley's warcry. She was the one who put more effort into school than anyone else did... until a distraction named Aaron came along.

Jessica stopped in front of the lockers around the corner. Then she stepped back and peered around the corner in the direction she'd just come.

Haley and Aaron stood halfway down the corridor, no longer walking. They faced each other now, but Aaron didn't meet Haley's eye. Jessica couldn't imagine why they looked so sad. She moved closer to the wall, not wishing to be seen. Was there more to her sister's love story than even Jessica knew about?

The warm air in the school had softened the red sting in Aaron's cheeks, but still one side of his face had an unnatural hue. It was like when Jessica tripped and caught herself on her hands, and her palms appeared splotchy red for awhile afterward. Broken blood vessels, maybe. Had Aaron fallen on his face? Made sense, given the icy sidewalks.

The idea that it was rude to watch someone secretly crossed Jessica's mind. More than that, she wanted to know what was going on. Why did Haley want to be with Aaron all the time if they always made each other sad?

Then the pair started moving again. Jessica pulled back, out of view, and hurried to her classroom. She hated coming in late and having everybody snicker at her. She sat in the back, which she never did, and put her elbows on her desk.

Her sister had a secret. It was a secret she shared only with Aaron, and Jessica felt excluded like a bee from a house. But it was a sad secret. Maybe somebody had died. Maybe Aaron had a disease. Could he be dying? Or had someone in his family died?

Jessica guessed at this secret all through math class. She even scribbled possibilities in between decimal equations. When lunch break came, she gathered her tray and sat down, uninvited, next to Haley, who naturally sat across from Aaron at an otherwise empty table.

Jessica leaned close. "You have to tell me your secret."

"What?" Haley cast her a solid glare.

Aaron acted like he wasn't listening in on the whispering sisters. He busied himself building a tower with tater tots and chicken strips and drawing Snoopy with ketchup on his tray.

"You and Aaron," Jessica whispered, hand to the side of her mouth. "I want to be in on your secret."

"If we have a secret," whispered Haley, "it had better stay that way. Got it?"

Jessica looked across the table at Aaron. He glanced back at her and nodded firmly.

Jessica let out an irritated sigh and threw up her hands. Usually Haley was the dramatic one, but this time she couldn't hold it all in. "Fine! It's not like I really care anyway. Keep to yourselves."

She was frustrated and she wanted her full-time sister back. But she also realized that maybe there were some things her thirteen-year-old self couldn't fully understand. She hated being left out of anything, but she earnestly tried to understand the hidden purpose of her exclusion. Just like she tried to understand why Haley could drive Daddy's truck while Jessica wasn't even allowed to touch the keys.

All in good time.

In the meantime, she resolved to try to like Aaron, even though he didn't dress smart, he stole all of her sister's attention, and his ketchup drawings looked extremely weird.

— —- —

Since he had shaved his head bald, Max tried to honor his children's wishes by styling his ample mustache to look like the head of a mop. His kids, two girls and two boys, thought it would only be fitting for their father the school janitor to wear his hair — what he had anyway — in solidarity with his favorite floor-cleaning tool. The mop under his nose tickled constantly.

Unlike other janitors he knew, Max saw his job as the ultimate career. He enjoyed every aspect of it: cleaning the halls where herds of youngsters marched on their way to get educated, organizing his tools precisely like make-belief medieval weapons in the narrow closet, and stopping to chat with his favorite students whenever they had a minute. His wife said he had Peter Pan Syndrome, but Max simply felt his fatherly instinct extending toward every youth he met. With six siblings of his own, Max had seen firsthand the hard work that went into being a father, and he grew up wanting to be just like his dad. He wanted to give every kid an idea of the dad they deserved.

Today, Max was glad to see the first snow of the year settling gently on the school grounds. During class time, he wandered the halls alone, mopping up slush and dirt. Some people said Max wasted his bulging muscles with menial tasks when he could have easily gone into championship wrestling. Max didn't mind. He only wanted to wrestle on the side, not for a career. He put all his strength and effort into wiping every puddle and crust of ice off the heavily trodden floor. He believed his strong build should be used to protect children, even if the enemy was simply a bone-breaking slippery spot.

Max had seen one skinny student head to class after the bell rang. He had seen that boy before, and he often wondered about him. If Max could win the prize for Cheerfulest Attitude in a Man Who Forsook a Career in Professional Wrestling to Mop Floors, this boy could win the prize for Saddest and Most Exhausted Permanent Expression on a Human Being.

The boy's name was Aaron. Max had heard a teacher yell his name once when he fell asleep in the hallway. Aaron always seemed tired. When he walked in through the front doors, his feet were dragging. When waited in the hall between classes, his head was sagging. But it wasn't just Aaron's fatigue that worried Max. The boy seemed deeply sad most of the time.

Max had his own kids. If any one of them presented themselves the way Aaron did, Max would sit down with them until they told him what was wrong. It didn't seem normal for a kid to walk around looking so worn-out and world-weary.

Trying not to appear stalker-ish, Max kept an eye out for Aaron as he went in and out of his classes that day. The boy would stare at his shoes until the bell rang, then walk silently among the bubbly crowd into a classroom. When the next bell rang, Aaron would shuffle out with the others, maybe meet up with a girl he clearly liked, talk briefly, and then walk quietly to the next class. There was no energy in his steps.

Max wanted to talk to Aaron, to see if something was wrong. Max was friends with several students, but he had never spoken to Aaron before. Aaron didn't have a very open personality. But would he listen to a school janitor?

In the short break between afternoon classes, Max wrung out his mop and walked closer to Aaron. "Pardon me, son," he said in his thick Southern accent.

Aaron looked up.

"I just wanted to ask you..." What, exactly?

As Max searched for the right words, the bell rang again. Aaron excused himself and walked away again. Max crossed his big arms. Someone should talk to that boy. Wasn't anybody else concerned about him?

Max didn't see Aaron again that day, but he couldn't help wondering what kind of help he needed, and how he might get it. The questions drove him crazy.

— —- —-

Donna had been working as a check-out girl at the local convenience store for the past two years of high school. She had seen this boy named Aaron come in to pick up his family's groceries about once every few weeks. He was kind of cute, but so were most of the boys who came through on grocery errands. Aaron ranked about 5 and a half on Donna's 10-point Boy Scale — nice to look at occasionally, but a little too pale, narrow-faced, and sickly to actually go out with. And too serious. Getting a smile out of Aaron was like getting both political parties to shake hands and settle down, for good. Besides, someone like Aaron would never be as cool as (sigh) Joey from the New Kids on the Block, Donna's all-time favorite band.

Donna flipped her bushy ponytail back and watched Aaron select items off a list that was scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. Aaron's idea of fashion looked like something out of the 1950's catalogs Donna's mother still kept in the attic. His well-worn, cuffed jeans were boring and unstylish, and his forest green, clearly shrunken sweater had holes and knots of yarn coming undone. And his shoes. In a past life, perhaps some thirty years ago, they might have been a very fine pair of dress shoes. In this life, a generation later, they were sad, wounded old things held together with tape and patched with newspaper scraps.

Donna wondered if Aaron even had a sense of fashion. Above all else, he never made any attempt to style his short, choppy hair. Maybe he was dirt poor. His appearance, though unfashionable, seemed desperately tidy, as if Aaron was fighting a losing battle to make himself presentable. There was a little bit of charm about that.

Aaron deposited an armful of cabbage, potatoes, canned soup broth, and packaged bread onto the checkout counter. He also added a jar of vegetable baby food and a quart of whole milk.

Donna snapped her gum and began checking out each item. "How are you today, Aaron?"

"So far, doing alright." Aaron shivered a little as he took a silk billfold from his pocket and began counting out cash. His fingertips were blue and his hair was a bit damp, probably from the frosty weather outside. Donna saw dark circles under his eyes and wondered what reason he had to lose sleep. Donna's reason was chatting on the phone with her girlfriends late at night. Aaron didn't seem the type to chat for hours on the phone. Why was he so tired?

Donna began totalling the prices. "So... have you heard about the discount day at the roller rink? Next Tuesday?"

Aaron shook his head. "Haven't been skating in a long time."

Donna smiled and opened a bag for the groceries. "You should come. It will be fun!"

Aaron knitted his brow. "Don't know if I can make it. I think I'll be... busy."

Donna really had only one reason to be so insistent on inviting him. The more the merrier, was her philosophy, especially when "the more" mostly consisted of boys. Plus, Aaron seemed like he could use a little more fun in his life. "Come on, Aaron. The whole senior class will be there, plus several juniors like you. You'll be very welcomed."

Aaron helped her pack his groceries into a single plastic bag. "I'd love to, Donna. I just don't think I can make the time."

How can he possibly be too busy to hang out with friends?

"Thanks anyway." Aaron placed a thin wad of bills on the counter.

Disappointed, Donna busied herself counting the money. She paused, realizing Aaron was a dollar short. When she pointed this out, Aaron searched his pockets.

"That's all the money my mother gave me for this trip," he said quietly.

Donna glanced sideways at the manager, who was stocking the liquor shelf behind the counter. She then reached under the counter for her purse, found a one-dollar bill, and placed it in the register. "It's covered," she whispered conspiratorially.

Aaron thanked her and took the bulging bag. Then he walked out the glass door that jingled as it opened. A blast of cold air curled around him into the store until the door closed and shut it out.

Donna sighed. She wished Joey McIntyre, her favorite singer, would come here for groceries. How much more exciting that would be!

The manager turned to Donna as he opened another crate of bottles. "Was that Aaron Hotchner?"

"Yeah. Do you know him?"

The manager shook his head. "I expected his mother. She comes in here every week or so to stock up on hard liquor and cigarettes. It's a wonder she can still afford groceries."

Donna looked out the glass wall and saw Aaron walking away with head bowed and shoulders raised to protect against the cold. She didn't know why her manager told her about his mother, and she wondered what it meant.

"Whose milk is that?" The manager pointed to the quart sitting beside the register.

"Oh no." Donna grabbed the glass bottle. She bolted out of the store, into the cold, and called to the boy who had just reached the curb. "Aaron, wait! You forgot this."

Aaron's eyes went wide as he turned to her. He took the bottle from her outstretched hand, gazed at it for a second, and slipped it into his bag. Then, suddenly, he leaned forward and pulled Donna into a quick but meaningful hug. "Thank you so much!" he whispered.

Donna was startled. So startled she no longer felt the cold. A hug was the last thing she would have expected from a guy like Aaron. There was nothing sensual or even romantic about his sudden gesture. It was merely a sign of extreme gratitude. She would have thought he had just gotten back a long-lost, beloved dog.

"You're... you're welcome," said Donna once Aaron released her from his embrace.

And just like that, Aaron turned around and went on his way.

No doubt about it, Donna thought as she headed back into the warm store. There is something really weird about Aaron. Better to stick to unattainable boys like the dreamy Joey McIntyre...

—- —- —

Officer Simon missed the days when he drove lights and sirens to an active robbery or showed up at an apartment to settle a dispute or arrived first on a crime scene. Since the accident — a head-on collision with a white van driven by half-asleep drunk — Officer Simon had been unable to return to the more active field work. When he wasn't filing cases at the precinct, he usually just made traffic stops at a minimally busy street corner like the one here among the restaurants and small businesses. All he had to do was sit in a cruiser and aim the traffic radar out the window. Nobody sped around here anyway.

He saw the boy standing beside the snow-dusted newspaper racks outside a bookstore. The boy held a full grocery bag, wore secondhand clothes, and looked cold and exhausted. He had the appearance of a teenager but not the build. If anything, he looked small for his age, undernourished. He also looked lost.

Giving himself the okay to leave the speed-scanning for a moment, Officer Simon climbed out of his car. Glancing warily around the sidewalk, he approached the shivering boy.

The boy looked up from the newspaper headlines and froze. He suddenly looked very scared. "Can I help you, Officer?"

"I just saw you hanging out in one spot for ten minutes. Are you lost, son?"

The boy shook his head wildly. "Oh no, sir. I'm waiting to cross the street."

Officer Simon smiled kindly, though he didn't quite buy it. "You've been waiting a long time."

The boy looked left and right as if searching for a way out. "It's a very busy street, sir."

"I can walk across with you, if you'd like." Officer Simon expected the boy to turn down the offer. Any ordinary teenager would.

"That would be fine, sir, if it gets me across quickly."

Now Officer Simon eyed the boy suspiciously. "Are you afraid of something?"

Another rapid shake of the head. "I should be getting home now. Real soon. I just can't find a long enough opening."

"I understand." It made sense on some level, but to the officer, the boy had looked more like he was delaying getting across the street for as long as he could.

Traffic from both directions came to a split-second stop on each side before flowing across or turning either way. The crosswalk could hardly be seen beneath the spinning wheels.

Officer Simon held out a hand to stop the through traffic. He gestured to the boy, and they passed the much-ignored stop sign together. The boy kept his eyes on the street.

"What have you been up to today?" asked Officer Simon.

"Went to school. Got groceries for my mom."

"Anything you want to tell me about? Any problems at school?"

"No sir."

Officer Simon thought for a second. They crossed the first traffic lane. "I've been hearing a lot about a drug problem near the school. You haven't been involved in that, have you?"

"No sir. What kinds of drugs?"

"Marijuana, cocaine. Kids sell and use them illegally. You would tell me if you saw any, right?"

"Right away, sir."

Officer Simon thought some more. "That store back there—" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder— "Sure is a popular place to be hit. Have you seen anything suspicious? Anybody hanging around, scouting it out?"

"No sir. And I wouldn't do that either."

"I see." Officer Simon scratched his head. He and the boy crossed the second lane of traffic. "How do you like school? You do well?"

"Some of the time. I'm trying harder."

The boy still seemed a bit frightened, but it didn't show so much now that he looked straight ahead.

"Did I startle you back there?" asked Officer Simon.

The boy nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir, you did."

Maybe that was all. Anybody would be shaken up if a big man in uniform suddenly came up behind them.

They reached the other side of the street. "Have a good rest of your day, kid, and stay warm," said Officer Simon. "And remember, you never have to be afraid to call us if there's ever a problem."

The boy looked pale. He swallowed. "Officer?"

"Yes?"

A long pause. The boy's lips remained parted, trembling a little, as he searched Simon's eyes and tried to collect his words. He made a faint sound like he was trying to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth.

"What is it, son?"

The boy shook his head. "Nothing. Just... Thank you, sir."

Then he turned and hurried up the street.

Officer Simon couldn't help wondering. Maybe his investigative skills had weakened since his role on the force had been downsized, but his intuition felt as strong as ever. Why did something seem so wrong about that boy?

— — —

Barbara could spend hours at a time clearing the ice and weeds in her front yard and untangling her beloved cold-weather pansies. Since she and her husband Dan had retired from working in retail and in the Navy, respectively, Barbara's primary quest in life was to exterminate the bad in her yard to make room for the good. That was how she viewed everything in life. There was no room for good to flourish if evil wasn't first conquered. That philosophy explained why they gave so much to the military.

She and Dan wanted to sell the house soon and spend the rest of their retirement in Mississippi, near their grandchildren. First, they had to tend to every detail of the house and ensure that it had tip-top market value.

In Barbara's opinion, one house on their street significantly brought down the neighborhood image and her own home's saleability value, and she could do nothing about it. It was the Hotchner home directly across the street. Since the death of Mr. Hotchner a couple years ago, the rest of the family had neglected the house's upkeep miserably.

Paint peeled away like the petals of flowers that didn't survive the oppressive garden forces. And like most of the summer flowers, the house had faded in color and grown old and brittle; but unlike Barbara's flowers, it got no treatment or repair. Similarly, the yard was allowed to grow untamed with natural grass and weeds choking out the blossoms that used to grow there in the summertime. Right now, dirty snow and ice clumped around the ugly yard, also ignored. Barbara didn't want realtors or potential buyers coming to her front door and then looking across the street at the unsightly view.

Worse than the outward appearance of the house, the inner turmoil sometimes got so loud it scared Barbara. She remembered the first time she woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of an adolescent boy screaming with pain. It wasn't long after Mr. Hotchner's death. Dressed only in her dotted pink gown and nightcap, Barbara rushed to the second-story window with Dan close behind her. They peered through the curtains, but the dark street outside was empty and still.

They waited, listening intently. The sound of glass breaking made Barbara gasp.

"Sounds like trouble across the street," wheezed Dan.

"Should we do something?" Barbara turned away from the window. She worried for her husband's heart, which probably couldn't take much more of this kind of stress before failing.

"We don't know what's happening," Dan pointed out.

They heard a loud, startling thump.

"Call the police," Barbara pleaded.

But then the sounds stopped altogether. They waited another five minutes, but they heard nothing more. Considering it could have been a simple accident they heard — someone falling down the stairs, for instance — and not wanting to create a fuss out of nothing, they eventually decided to go back to bed. They didn't hear another sound the rest of the night.

In the morning, Barbara went out to walk their aging beagle while Dan made some repairs in the carpentry upstairs. She saw Mrs. Hotchner's new partner, Charles, in front of his house, kneeling beside his car on the gravel and replacing a wheel. Barbara lingered on the sidewalk, reining in her restless dog with a leash.

"Good morning," she called out.

Charles just grunted.

Barbara wanted to walk away, but she kept pushing. "How is the family?"

Charles shrugged. "Why don't you ask them?"

"Is Mrs. Hotchner home? Or what about Aaron? I'd like to say hello."

"What business of yours are they?" Charles snapped.

Now Barbara really wanted to move along. "They're my neighbors. I'm concerned for them."

"Concerned?" Charles stood suddenly, rag and tire iron in hand. "What are you concerned about?"

"Oh, it's probably nothing." Barbara shrugged and waved her hand like she really believed that. "I just couldn't help noticing some, well, rather, loud noises last night. I hope nobody hurt themselves."

Charles blanched, then his face turned scarlet. "Aren't you a nosy neighbor." He pointed his finger forcefully. "The only person who's going to get hurt is you if you keep poking around. Go back to your cozy little home with your old man and stay out of our lives."

Barbara let out a gasp of indignation. Now she knew she couldn't back down. "Mrs. Hotchner and her son are my neighbors, and I won't stand by if you do anything bad to them. Now if you don't let me see them, I'm going straightaway to the police." She raised her chin defiantly as she spoke.

Charles looked furious, but Barbara relied on the hope that he wouldn't attack an old lady. "Are you threatening me, you old hag? Well, let me tell you something. I have a police scanner, and I listen to it all the time. I will know the minute you send the cops to us for whatever reason. It won't do you any good, and I will know. And when I find out, I will make sure you never sell that crumby house of yours. I know people in real estate, and they listen to me, like you should. You'll be stuck on this street forever, watching each family in turn fall to pieces, and there won't be a darn thing you can do about it, besides wish you'd minded your own business."

Barbara was shaken. She felt angry at this brash, uncouth man treating his elders — and his family — like so much garbage. But she was also frightened. She didn't know how many of his threats carried any weight. Did he really own a police scanner? Did he have friends in real estate? Determined not to show any fear at his threat, Barbara threw in one last jab: "Then we'll stay here forever. You don't scare me, you disrespectful young fool!"

Charles looked about to lunge at her but caught himself just in time. He paused to think for a second, all the while staring angrily at Barbara. "Your husband has a weak heart," he said in a low, deadly tone. "You wouldn't want anything to happen that might... shut it down completely. Now would you?"

Barbara gasped. She let go of the dog leash, and the beagle bounded across the street to her home. Barbara's hands trembled over her mouth. "You monster... You wouldn't—!"

"And who's going to stop me? You?" The man laughed meanly. "I have a gun. I have several knives. I also have very large doses of some powerful drugs. And don't forget, I have a police scanner."

"If you come near my husband..." She didn't know how to finish the threat.

Charles smirked. "Leave the police out of our lives, and I'll stay out of yours. Deal?"

Barbara couldn't say another word. She was so upset she feared she might fall over. She looked away from Charles, looked up at the house. She couldn't see through any of the windows, and there was no way of knowing if the Hotchners were okay.

But Barbara was terrified for her husband. She believed Charles would make good on his threats, and she had no desire to endanger the man she loved more than anything else in the world.

She hurried home without another word. She never spoke to Charles again, and she only caught glimpses of the other family members from time to time. Each time she saw Aaron, he looked in worse shape than the last time. Sometimes both eyes were black, and often a pattern of bruises stood out on his thin face. Barbara had a son of her own, and now she had grandchildren. She would never let anyone hurt them. Why was Aaron any different? More than once, she picked up the phone to dial 9-1-1, but then she looked at Dan gradually wilting away in his armchair or in bed, and she tearfully replaced the receiver. Charles would be listening to the dispatch, and he would move too quickly for the elderly couple. He could run across the street in far less time than the police would take in arriving. The risk was too great.

It was very difficult, and so painful, lying in bed beside her sweetheart and listening to the repetitive whack! whack! whack! of violence across the street. Sometimes Dan would turn to her and suggest they do something; Aaron could get hurt.

"I'm sure Aaron will be fine," Barbara would whisper back. "You need your rest."

By now Dan was too weak to argue. There are other neighbors on this street, Barbara would tell herself. Surely somebody will step in.

But nobody did. It seemed as if Charles had the whole street under his stony hand. She never knew if Aaron really would be fine, but each time she saw him, she silently begged his forgiveness and longed to tell him why she didn't dare help.

His life for Dan's.

Over the last year, Dan's hearing faded almost to a memory. He would remain sleeping peacefully in the dead of night while Barbara lay awake, listening, alone with the agonizing noises and her own guilt. She tried to focus on the sound of Dan breathing, grateful for each breath he could still take. Instead, she always heard the boy's pleas and the stomach-churning thuds. She felt responsible for each one.

Once, Barbara oiled the old Volkswagen and drove to the police station. This way, she wasn't using the phone, and she hoped Charles couldn't find out. But Charles had followed her in his well-kept station wagon. He caught her in the parking lot and warned her not to "pull a stunt like this again." He also reminded her that Dan was left alone at home, and anything could happen to him, and he reiterated that he would hear everything they said. Barbara had hardly left her home since, not even to attend her seniors' club meetings where she used to play Monopoly with other ladies. House callers wondered if she had become a permanent shut-in.

And so this became Barbara's excruciating reality for nearly two years. Her life, and Dan's, quickly deteriorated. They rarely went out anymore. Attempts at selling the house had languished. Now, as she knelt in the garden to clear the frost from the purple and yellow pansies, she feared they might never leave this neighborhood. It was worse than Charles' initial threat. This way, she was doomed to watch endless pain unfold on her young neighbor, and all the while she wished she had spoken up.

Here he came now. Aaron walked slowly up the street with a plastic grocery bag hugged to his chest. He wasn't properly dressed for the weather — no hat, jacket, or gloves — whereas Barbara was very well bundled up. She thought she could see ice crystals on his hair and eyelashes, or perhaps those were fallen snowflakes.

She thought about inviting him in, like she had always wanted to. She would get him nice and warm by the fire and feed him fresh biscuits and tea. She would then inspect his wounds, treat them, and apologize intently at his feet. Once she finally gained an undeserved forgiveness, she would reassure the poor boy and call the police, at last. If they acted fast enough, Charles couldn't possibly get at Dan.

Barbara stood. She would call to him, wave him over.

Aaron had reached his front yard.

Barbara stretched out a hand, as if she could somehow stop the boy from walking back to his tormentors. She opened her mouth to call out.

Aaron opened the front door.

Barbara was frozen in place, unable to stop him, unable to speak. Her mouth closed at the same time as the front door, and just like that, Aaron was gone. Vanished once again into the enemy's lair. Unaided. Unstopped. Why did he always come back?

And why didn't anybody ever stop him?