*I got one like this,' Nat said. Trying to talk like someone who hadn't just been gut-punched. *But it's just this outside part.'

*You gotta stuff 'em yourself. But that's good you got one. Cause you're gonna need the practice.'

*What do I stuff it with?'

*The ones we got here are stuffed with sawdust. Or sand. Or both. But don't try that at home, unless you really trust your ceiling. Old clothes works OK. Or you can stop at the dumpster behind that carpet store down the street. Get a bunch of old padding. You can roll that up around some old clothes or rags or whatever and then slide the whole thing inside. Now, step up to this bag here.'

He stood behind Nat for the first minute or two, correcting the position of his hands between each jab.

*Make you a deal,' Jack said. *You go home and practice just like you're doing now a only don't forget that footwork a for a week. And then come back and maybe I'll get in the ring with you.'

Nat agreed, yet stayed for over two hours, working. Stealing glances at Jack. And feeling the warm sense of having been taken under somebody's wing. Someone he could relate to. Someone he could model himself after. A clear marker on the road to the man Nat suddenly wanted and needed to be.

When Nat got home with his big roll of discarded carpet padding, the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

Probably in a conference down at my school, he thought.

He stuffed the bag, then tried to figure out how to hang it.

Eventually he solved the problem by taking down the big hook that held the dining room chandelier and putting it up on one of the beams of his ceiling instead.

He pulled on his gloves and, leaving them untied, began to practice.

It felt good.

*What in heaven's name are you doing? And what is the chandelier doing lying on the dining room table?'

Too bad, Nat thought. The old woman is home.

He did not stop punching.

*Oh, good God! I can't take much more of this!' she screeched. *You took the hook down from the chandelier for that? How are we supposed to eat dinner?'

*I'm not hungry,' Nat said. Still punching.

*I just came back from your school. The assistant principal called me.'

Nat said nothing. Just continued to punch.

*Did you leave school without permission?'

*Nope.'

*Excuse me? What did you say?'

*Nope.'

*So why does he say you did?'

Nat paused briefly. Looked at her for the first time. *Maybe he was mistaken. Or maybe you just misunderstood.' Then he went back to striking the bag. Harder this time.

*So you were in school all afternoon.'

*Yup.'

*What class do you have right after math?'

*History.'

*And what did you study in history this afternoon?'

*The French Revolution,' he said, his voice broken and breathy with the exertion of his punches. *Did you know that when Marie Antoinette said, "Then let them eat cake," she didn't mean cake like we eat, she meant this nasty crap that gets stuck on the pans when they bake bread? Did you know that? Kind of puts things in a whole new perspective. Doesn't it?'

A silence, during which he snuck a sideways look at the old woman's face.

*Well,' she said. *Much as it really is nice to hear you string more than one sentence together . . . it's only been, what? A year or two since you've said that many words to me? Despite my pleasure over that, I think you're lying.'

*Nope,' Nat said.

She left the room.

Nat instinctively knew the trouble was not over, but he didn't let that interfere with his practice. He just kept jabbing for several minutes, feeling sweat roll down under the neckline of his tee shirt, tickling slightly. He liked the sound of his own puffing breath.

The old woman reappeared. He purposely did not look at her face.

*I called your history teacher at home. She informs me that you studied the French Revolution last week, and that today you were absent from class. I'm impressed you were even paying attention to the comments of Marie Antoinette. But it still means that you are a liar.'

Nat stopped punching. Stood with both gloved hands on the bag, leaning slightly. Panting. *I guess it runs in the family,' he said.

The old woman lost her temper and charged at him. *And this is going back!' She lunged for his heavy bag and tried to lift it down off its hook.

*No!' Nat said. *No fucking way!'

*You do not use that language with me, young man!' she bellowed. And slapped him hard across the face. *This present is going back.'

She grabbed for one of the gloves. Because it was unlaced, she managed to pull it off his hand. He tried to grab it back, but she turned away from him, and tucked it against her stomach, wrapping herself around the prize.

He lunged at her. Tried to grab them. But instead he only managed to slam into her with his shoulder. Hard. She banged into the wall and bounced off again, thudding into a sitting position on the floor.

Nat grabbed his glove back and stormed out of the house. Knowing he had just sacrificed the bag, but not knowing how to change that. Knowing only that the time had come to go.

He stopped halfway down the front steps. Looked back. It didn't seem likely that she should be hurt. Not really hurt. He could certainly run into the wall and fall down like that and be fine. But she was old, Gamma. Maybe he'd better go back in.

But she'd find a way to punish him for it. He knew she would.

He saw her face come to the window. Saw her place her hands against the glass, watching him go.

He turned and took the steps two at a time and ran.

He headed straight for the train yard, breaking into a sprint. Because he knew his only chance was to get there fast. He knew it was the first place they would look for him. His only hope of escape rested in getting there before the old woman called the police, and told them where to look, and they did.

He ran downhill a half-mile to the tracks, and jogged along them, hoping a train would come by. If he could hop on something moving, that would be much better.

He even stopped and put his ear to the rail, but he heard nothing.

When the narrow easement on each side of the tracks widened out to the train yard, he saw it was empty. There were no trains parked there. Not that a parked train would have helped him anyway, unless it was just about to get under way.

He shrank back into the bushes as he got closer. Wondering where the best place would be to hide. He pushed himself backwards into a stand of brush and crouched there, feeling the sharp tips of branches scratch his neck and back and scalp. He held very still and listened to the sound of his own breathing. It settled to normal for the first time in hours.

Dusk began to set in, offering the beginnings of a welcome cover.

He had no jacket. He would have to find some way to keep warm.

He closed his eyes. After a very long set of minutes a or it could even have been half an hour a he heard the rails buzz with an oncoming train. It was approaching from the other side of the train yard. He heard its welcoming whistle.

He didn't want to risk jumping it from his current location. Too narrow. Too little margin for error. He had never jumped a moving train, and he would likely only get one chance. And it was half-dark.

He tied the gloves together by the laces and hung them around his neck.

When he saw the big light on the front of the engine, he pushed out of the bushes and sprinted as fast as he could into the open train yard.

And was immediately met by two cops with their guns drawn.

*Nathan Bates?' one said. *You are under arrest for assault.'

He stopped cold. What else could he do?

The train clattered past.

*I'm not Nathan Bates,' he said. When he could be heard again. *You got the wrong guy.'

*Oh, do we? So, you're just some other kid the same age, in the same neighborhood, trying to jump a freight train with a pair of boxing gloves? OK. Tell you what. Come with us downtown. We'll see who you are. If you're not Nathan Bates, you can go. If you are, then you're under arrest for assault and making a false statement to an officer.'

They took the boxing gloves from him, cuffed his hands behind his back. Led him in the direction of a squad car parked on the adjacent street.

*So,' the other cop said. *Any new thoughts on who you are?'

*I guess I'm Nathan Bates,' he said.

*It's a wonderful moment when these kids find themselves. Don't you think so, Ralph?'

2 October 1974.

More Nothing.

Nat woke on a hard wooden bench in a small, cold holding cell.

The door of the cell was open, and the two cops were standing in the open doorway, talking to each other in loudly exaggerated voices.

*So, tell me, Ralph . . . have you ever seen a kid rotten enough to assault his own grandmother and give her a concussion?'

His grandmother had a concussion? Was that true? He'd had no idea.

*No. I've seen some pretty rotten ones. But that takes the prize.'

*What would you do to your own kid if he did a thing like that?'

*No kid of mine ever would. I'd raise him up better than that. And he wouldn't dare.'

*Just theoretically, though. What would you do?'

*Well, if the grandmother would press charges, I'd lock his ass up in Juvenile Hall for a few years and that would teach him a lesson.'

*And if she wouldn't?'

*Then I'd have to teach him myself, I guess.'

Nathan pressed his eyes shut again. Waiting for it.

A few seconds later he felt himself lifted by the armpits. Pulled to his feet. His arms held tightly behind his back. He opened his eyes and looked into the face of one of them. Ralph. Betraying as little fear as possible. His shoulder joints were being painfully twisted, but he was careful not to complain or even let on.

*So, how does it feel to be helpless? Huh, boy? When somebody bigger and stronger is holding you like that, does it make you feel as helpless as, say . . . a little old lady?'

In truth, to be completely helpless a and then taunted about it a triggered a frightening burst of rage in Nat. It exploded up from his gut and overwhelmed him. But there wasn't much he could do about it.

He almost spit in the cop's face. He had begun to gather enough saliva to do so.

But no. He wouldn't. He would do nothing.

Let it be all them, he thought. All their fault. Don't even give them a good excuse.

Instead Nat shut down the inside of himself like a store at quitting time. Locked the door and hung out the sign. They could do whatever they wanted to him, and, other than physical pain, they could not make him feel anything about it at all.

*Oh, dear,' the old woman said when she looked up and saw his face.

She was standing at the desk arguing with an officer Nat hadn't seen yet. It seemed to take her a moment to get back to what they'd been arguing about. As if the sight of his face had knocked all other thoughts out of her head.

*Here's a question, then,' the officer behind the counter said. *If you don't want to press charges, why'd you have us pick him up in the first place?'

*Well, I couldn't just let him run away,' she said.

*We're not your baby-sitters, ma'am.'