At The City's Edge

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His heart pumps fire.

Jason's feet are impossibly heavy, and his world is blurring. Shin muscles stretch to snapping, rubber bands wound too tight. When they began racing, the breeze was like cool water he could melt into. But it has been an hour at least, and now the air is something to fight through, humid and thick.

Arms pumping, Jason risks a sideways glance at his older brother.

Michael catches it. His features are crinkled in effort, and sweat soaks the thin dark hairs pointing scraggly on his upper lip. His shirt is stained a dark V. But he manages to cock one corner of his mouth up at an ugly angle. "Give up yet?" he asks. His voice the same as the upperclassmen in gym, the ones who snap locker room towels, who laugh at Jason's hairless body, call him faggot.

Jason leans into the run, speeding up. Feet tingling. Mouth open. Gasping.

He will never stop running. Never.

When the man pointed a gun at him, Jason Palmer was cooling down after his daily five and picturing the first beer of the day, a sweating Corona-and-lime that he figured he'd drink in the shower. Happy hour had been coming early lately, but he'd decided not to worry about it. To pretend this was summer vacation. Spend it running along the lake, scoping the bikini-girls that hit North Avenue Beach every afternoon like rent was a concept they weren't familiar with. He pushed sweat-damp bangs out of his eyes, laced his fingers overhead, and turned into the pedestrian tunnel beneath Lake Shore Drive. The change from blast-furnace sun to cement-cool shadows left him blinking, but when his eyes adjusted there the guy was, standing like he'd been waiting.

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