His Brian was in the center of what looked like a street gang. Time distorted. In slow motion, Donald down shifted and popped the curb as his eyes took in the three James brothers surrounding Brian with baseball bats and tire irons behind their backs. The boy was tied to a hook hammered into the pole of a streetlight to keep him upright. The harsh rays of a late summer afternoon reflected on a long sharp shiv. Egged on by an old woman in ragged plush bunny slippers and pink sponge rollers, they were cornering Brian.
Donald started to sweat. Brian’s face was a mask of blood and bruising. Donald gunned the motor and took the SUV up the curb and on to the sidewalk. The SUV scattered the boys from around the light and just as Donald exited the car, the ragged rope gave and Brian went down.
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