The next morning, Roy traded seats on the school bus to be closer to the front door. When the bus turned onto the street where he had seen the running boy, Roy slipped his backpack over his shoulders and scouted out the window, waiting. Seven rows back, Dana Matherson was tormenting a sixth grader named Louis. Louis was from Haiti and Dana was merciless.

As the bus came to a stop at the intersection, Roy poked his head out the window and checked up and down the street. Nobody was running. Seven kids boarded the bus, but the strange shoeless boy was not among them.

It was the same story the next day, and the day after that. By Friday, Roy had pretty much given up. He was sitting ten rows from the door, reading an X-Man comic, as the bus turned the familiar corner and began to slow down. A movement at the corner of his eye made Roy glance up from his comic book-and there he was on the sidewalk, running again! Same basketball jersey, same grimy shorts, same black-soled feet.

As the brakes of the school bus wheezed, Roy grabbed his backpack off the floor and stood up. At that instant, two big sweaty hands closed around his neck.

"Where ya goin', cowgirl?"

"Lemme go," Roy rasped, squirming to break free.

The grip on his throat tightened. He felt Dana's ashtray breath on his right ear: "How come you don't got your boots on today? Who ever heard of a cowgirl wearing Air Jordans?"

"They're Reeboks," Roy squeaked.

The bus had stopped, and the students were starting to board. Roy was furious. He had to get to the door fast, before the driver closed it and the bus began to roll.

But Dana wouldn't let go, digging his fingers into Roy's windpipe. Roy was having trouble getting air, and struggling only made it worse.

"Look at you," Dana chortled from behind, "red as a tomato!"

Roy knew the rules against fighting on the bus, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He clenched his right fist and brought it up blindly over his shoulder, as hard as he could. The punch landed on something moist and rubbery.

There was a gargled cry; then Dana's hands fell away from Roy's neck. Panting, Roy bolted for the door of the bus just as the last student, a tall girl with curly blond hair and red-framed eyeglasses, came up the steps. Roy clumsily edged past her and jumped to the ground.

"Where do you think you're going?" the girl demanded.

"Hey, wait!" the bus driver shouted, but Roy was already a blur.

The running boy was way ahead of him, but Roy figured he could stay close enough to keep him in sight. He knew the kid couldn't go at full speed forever.

He followed him for several blocks-over fences, through shrubbery, weaving through yapping dogs and lawn sprinklers and hot tubs. Eventually Roy felt himself tiring. This kid is amazing, he thought. Maybe he's practicing for the track team.

Once Roy thought he saw the boy glance over his shoulder, as if he knew he was being pursued, but Roy couldn't be certain. The boy was still far ahead of him, and Roy was gulping like a beached trout. His shirt was soaked and perspiration poured off his forehead, stinging his eyes.

The last house in the subdivision was still under construction, but the shoeless boy dashed heedlessly through the lumber and loose nails. Three men hanging drywall stopped to holler at him, but the boy never broke stride. One of the same workers made a one-armed lunge at Roy but missed.

Suddenly there was grass under his feet again-the greenest, softest grass that Roy had ever seen. He realized that he was on a golf course, and that the blond kid was tearing down the middle of a long, lush fairway.

On one side was a row of tall Australian pines, and on the other side was a milky man-made lake. Roy could see four brightly dressed figures ahead, gesturing at the barefoot boy as he ran by.

Roy gritted his teeth and kept going. His legs felt like wet cement, and his lungs were on fire. A hundred yards ahead, the boy cut sharply to the right and disappeared into the pine trees. Roy doggedly aimed himself for the woods.

An angry shout echoed, and Roy noticed that the people in the fairway were waving their arms at him, too. He kept right on running. Moments later there was a distant glint of sunlight on metal, followed by a muted thwack. Roy didn't actually see the golf ball until it came down six feet in front of him. He had no time to duck or dive out of the way. All he could do was turn his head and brace for the blow.

The bounce caught him squarely above the left ear, and at first it didn't even hurt. Then Roy felt himself swaying and spinning as a brilliant gout of fireworks erupted inside his skull. He felt himself falling for what seemed like a long time, falling as softly as a drop of rain on velvet.

When the golfers ran up and saw Roy facedown in the sand trap, they thought he was dead. Roy heard their frantic cries but he didn't move. The sugar-white sand felt cool against his burning cheeks, and he was very sleepy.

The "cowgirl" jab-well, that was my own fault, he thought. He'd told the kids at school he was from Montana, cattle country, when in fact he'd been born in Detroit, Michigan. Roy's mother and father had moved away from Detroit when he was only a baby, so it seemed silly to call it his hometown. In Roy's mind, he didn't really have a hometown; his family had never stayed anywhere long enough for Roy to feel settled.

Of all the places the Eberhardts had lived, Roy's favorite was Bozeman, Montana. The snaggle-peaked mountains, the braided green rivers, the sky so blue it seemed like a painting-Roy had never imagined anywhere so beautiful. The Eberhardts stayed two years, seven months, and eleven days; Roy wanted to stay forever.

On the night his father announced they'd be moving to Florida, Roy locked himself in his bedroom and cried. His mother caught him climbing out the window with his snowboard and a plastic tackle box in which he had packed underwear, socks, a fleece ski jacket, and a $100 savings bond his grandfather had given him as a birthday present.

His mother assured Roy that he would love Florida. Everybody in America wants to move there, she'd said, it's so sunny and gorgeous. Then Roy's father had poked his head in the door and said, with somewhat forced enthusiasm: "And don't forget Disney World."

"Disney World is an armpit," Roy had stated flatly, "compared to Montana. I want to stay here."

As usual, he was outvoted.

So when the homeroom teacher at Trace Middle asked the new kid where he was from, he stood up and proudly said Bozeman, Montana. It was the same answer he gave on the school bus when Dana Matherson accosted him on his first day, and from then on Roy was "Tex" or "cowgirl" or "Roy Rogers-hardt."

It was his own fault for not saying Detroit.

"Why did you punch Mr. Matherson?" asked Viola Hennepin. She was the vice-principal of Trace Middle, and it was in her dim office cubicle that Roy now sat, awaiting justice.

"Because he was choking me to death."

"That's not Mr. Matherson's version of events, Mr. Eberhardt." Miss Hennepin's face had extremely pointy features. She was tall and bony, and wore a perpetually severe expression. "He says your attack was unprovoked."

"Right," said Roy. "I always pick the biggest, meanest kid on the bus and punch him in the face, just for fun."

"We don't appreciate sarcasm here at Trace Middle," said Miss Hennepin. "Are you aware that you broke his nose? Don't be surprised if your parents get a hospital bill in the mail."

Roy said, "The dumb jerk almost strangled me."

"Really? Your bus driver, Mr. Kesey, said he didn't see a thing."

"It's possible he was actually watching the road," Roy said.