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Billy, looking terrified, stood frozen. He stared at the guy.

“Billy,” Dan said, and when there was no reply, he shouted: “Come on, Billy! Let’s go!”

The skinny guy waved the gun at Billy and said, “What you looking at? You hear what I said?”

Then Dan couldn’t believe his eyes.

It all happened at once, and in slow motion—the loud Bang-Bang-Bang!, the bright flashes of fire from the muzzle of the weapon, and then Billy grabbing at his chest and staggering back and finally falling and then not moving.

And then the blood flowing, running from his neck and open mouth, and saturating his shirt and fleece jacket.

Dan took one step toward Billy—then saw the guy

swing the gun, its muzzle still smoking, and aim it in his direction.

Dan rapidly shuffled his feet to back away, slipped and hit the sidewalk, then finally got traction just as the guy fired a round at him. Dan crawled around the corner, onto Hart Lane, then got to his feet. He took off down the sidewalk as he heard two more shots going off behind him—the bullets ricocheting off the street not fifty feet away.

—

After running two blocks down Hart Lane, Dan stopped. He breathed heavily, the cold air making his lungs burn. He looked back. No one followed.

He put his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

Damn it! He killed Billy! What the hell?

He crossed his arms over his stomach and dipped his head. He then lunged forward, trying to reach a patch of dirt off the sidewalk. He didn’t make it. There then came a deep guttural sound as he threw up, the vomitus splattering against the base of a flight of concrete steps, some of it splashing back on his shoes and jeans.

When the spasms stopped, he spit on the sidewalk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Now what? I can’t go back.

I can’t call for help. He’s got my phone.

And if I did, he’s got our wallets. My license has my damn address.

He knows where I live . . .

The foul acidic odor floated up to him, burning his nostrils and triggering his gag reflex. He fought it back, turning his head and quickly breathing in fresh air. His brain felt as if it were spinning.

Dan glared back down the street as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked in the other direction and saw two rough-looking males across the street glaring at him. He jerked his head at the sound of a car that turned onto Hart, then rattled toward him. Frozen, he just stared blankly as a battered Ford sedan with darkened windows rolled past.

I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.

And, his lungs still burning, he took off running.

—

The slick high-gloss tan brick and bright blue painted steel of the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority train station stood out on the street, its modern design sharply contrasting with the neighborhood’s dilapidated hundred-year-old gray stone storefronts and the dirty broken sidewalks.

The elevated station on the SEPTA Market Frankford Line had been built over the five-way intersection of Kensington Avenue and Somerset Street.

There were four young males standing by the entrance, and Dan carefully kept his distance as he moved past them. He then ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, catching the distinct foul odor of urine as he went.

When he reached the level with the turnstiles, a line of them directly ahead, he picked up his pace.

What happens if I get caught jumping?

Screw that! I need a cop to catch me—and get me the hell out of here.