I ran, but I must've got turned around 'cause nothing was where it should've been. Invisible bushes slashed my face. I smacked against a tree, and I guess that's how my nose got broken, but I didn't feel it, I was too scared. I just kept running, yelling for my Dad, and when I didn't bump into anything, I guessed I was in the street, but I know now it was the vacant lot next to Mr. Carrington. Somebody's digging a foundation for a new house, and it was like the ground disappeared. I was suddenly falling, it seemed like forever, and I landed so hard I bit my lip right through. You ought to see the stitches. My Dad says sometimes when something terrible happens to you, you don't feel it on account of what he calls shock. He says your body has a limit to what it can stand, and then it shuts out the pain. That must've been what happened 'cause my chest and my nose and my lip got numb, and all I wanted was to find my Dad and get back home. I wanted my Mom.

I crawled from the hole, and somehow I knew there was someone close. With my eyes full of tears, I could barely see the snow, but then this dark shape rushed at me, and I knew it was my Dad, except it wasn't. In the comics, when someone gets hit on the head, they always show stars. And that's what I saw, stars, bright in the snow, and I knew I'd been hit, but I didn't feel it. My Dad says shock can do that, too. Something can happen to you that would normally slam you flat, but if you're scared, you somehow get the strength not to fall.

I almost did, though. Everything got blurry and began to spin, and this is the strange part. I got hit so hard I dropped my sack of papers. The sack fell open, and as clear as day I saw my papers in a drift, the black ink with white all around it. Then the papers were splattered with red. You know that old joke? What's black and white and read all over? A newspaper. Only this is spelled different. The red was the blood from my head. I turned to run, and that's when the shadow grabbed my arm.

I kept turning, and even in the shriek of the wind, I heard the crack as clear as if my Dad had taken a piece of kindling and snapped it across his knee for the fireplace, but the snap was from my arm, and I felt it twist at the elbow, pointing toward my shoulder. The next thing I was on my back, and the snow stopped gusting long enough for me to gape up at old Mr. Blanchard kneeling beside me, raising the claw end of a hammer.

I moved my head as he brought it down, so the claws glanced past my scalp, tearing away some hair. I kicked, and this time the hammer whacked my collar bone. I screamed. The claws of the hammer plunged toward the spot between my eyes.

And another hand shot from the storm, grabbing Mr. Blanchard's arm. Before I passed out, I saw my Dad yank the hammer away from him and jerk him to his feet. My Dad shouted stuff at him I'd never heard before. I mean terrible words I don't want to remember and I won't repeat. Then my Dad was shaking Mr. Blanchard, and Mr. Blanchard's head was flopping back and forth, and the next thing I knew, I was here in the hospital with the bandages around my head and my nose and mouth swollen and my arm in this cast.

My Dad tried to explain it to me. I think I understand, but I'm not sure. Mr. Blanchard's wife died three months ago. I thought she was still alive, but I was wrong. He and his wife, they never had any children, and my Dad says he felt so alone without her he wanted somebody around the house to take care of, like a son, so the first boy he took home was from Granite Falls that time two months ago when he went to visit his wife's sister. Then he wanted another son and another, so he took home those two boys from here, making sure it was snowing so he could hide his tracks, but then he wanted all the sons he could get. It makes me sick to think about it, how after he realized the boys were dead he took them out to his garage and stacked them under a sheet of canvas in the corner, "like cord wood" a reporter said. It's been cold enough that the bodies got hard and frozen. Otherwise they would've smelled like that other house I told you about. I wonder now if all the times I saw Mr. Blanchard crying it was because of his wife being dead or because he realized he was doing wrong but he couldn't stop himself. A part of me feels sorry for him, but another part keeps thinking about those missing boys and how scared they must've been when Mr. Blanchard came at them in the storm, and what he looked like when he knelt beside me, raising that hammer. I have a feeling I'll remember that till I grow up. Earlier I said the nurses wake me early here the same as if my Mom was getting me up to do my route. I guess I lied. The nurses didn't wake me. I woke myself, screaming, remembering the claws of the hammer and the blood on my papers. The nurses ran in, and someone's been sitting with me ever since. My Mom or my Dad is always here, and they say my collar bone is broken too, but what hurts worst is my arm.

The Gazette sent Sharon over, though I know she'd have come on her own. She's writing down what I say, but I'm not sure why 'cause she's also got a tape recorder turned on. You ought to see her smiling when I talk about her. She says she's going to put my story in the paper, and her boss is going to pay me for it. I can sure use the money 'cause the doctor says I won't be delivering papers for quite a while. I guess even after everything that's happened I'll go back to my route. After all, we know why those boys disappeared, and there can't be that many crazy people like Mr. Blanchard, though my Dad says he's beginning to wonder. He just read about a girl carrier in Ashville that had somebody try to pull her into a car. What's going on that even kids who deliver papers can't feel safe? My Dad says pretty soon nobody'll want to leave their houses.

Well, never mind. I told Sharon I've been talking for quite a while. I'm getting sleepy, and I don't believe the paper will print all this, but she says my story's what they call an exclusive, and maybe some other papers will pick it up. My Mom says she hopes I won't start acting temperamental, whatever that means, now that I'm famous, but I don't feel famous. I feel sore. I hope my customers enjoy reading what I said, though, 'cause I like them, and I hope they remember what they promised about giving me a tip on account of there's a new video game I want to buy. My Dad came in and heard this last part. He said it again. I must've been born a businessman and I'll probably grow up to vote Republican. I still don't know what a Republican is, but I've been thinking. Maybe if I go around to a few houses and show them the bandages around my head and the cast on my arm, they'll subscribe to the paper. There's a new contest on. The kid who finds the most new customers gets a year's free pass to the movies. Now if only they'll throw in the popcorn.

This middle story about the dark side of success gives us a different occupation: sports, specifically playing football. The main character of the previous story was a boy. Here, we have a teenager. The third story will be told by an adult. The plot was inspired by a newspaper account of an Iowa high-school football team that had a controversial ritual before each game. Odd how the stars of high school seldom remain stars in later life. Do they peak too early? Or is something extra needed to go all the way?