It had been Jr. Chine’s shot. He’d had the ball on the low post, about to release his patented baseline jumper, dramatic for its disregard of the backboard, its confidence as it cycled through the air and then swooped the chain-mesh net. The ball dropped from his hands like a whistle’d been blown. It trotted toward the field house, down the slope of the compressed basketball court, each bounce accompanied by the twang of an overinflated ball, into the slot between the cyclone retaining fence and the back of the brick building, where ball players, drunks, and wicky-stick fiends pissed, the piss collecting over generations, reeking, giving the field house its neighborhood moniker, “Stinky.”

The figure’s hands were hidden in his sweatshirt pockets. The deep hood hung low over his brow and his arms were locked at the elbows. The material was being stretched down as if the figure were cupping his balls, making the body seem even more ominous, an open mouth screaming, melting. If the crowd on the court could’ve seen the hands, a positive identification could’ve been made. They would’ve known for sure it was Death: long, white fingers, black fingernails. Or they would’ve known it was really Joker: bleeding crucifix tattoo on the web of his right hand, PARTY BOYS etched in Old English script like a banner over the crucifix. Jr. Chine approached the descending figure cautiously, his own right hand gripping the.25 automatic stuffed in the pocket of his cutoff jeans. He flipped the safety off, though, like always, he questioned immediately whether he’d actually flipped it on, and was now about to die feeling stupid. If he lived, he vowed, he’d memorize which action was the correct one, get the safety situation down pat, like he had the clip-loading maneuvers down pat, practicing for hours as he lay in bed, popping the clip in and out, in the dark, sightless, the clicks of the release mechanism like second nature. He sidestepped toward the figure. His steps shortened as he neared. And suddenly Jr. Chine’s vision went third-person. Everything — the game, those standing behind, the cigarette Jr. Chine had left smoldering until he was back downcourt — disappeared from view, and he could see it all as if he was living his own movie.

“Joker, what the fuck are you doing?” Jr. Chine said. And a tiny voice came from the hooded figure.

“Hey, bro, we need to find Angel.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jr. Chine said, now loud and boisterous, his adrenaline sky-high. He bobbed and weaved as he moved around the figure. “Take off that hood so I can hear you.” Jr. Chine’s hands were wet. His right hand around the grip of the gun had become cold, though the rubber grip itself remained hot. He pulled the gun from his pocket and held it stiff-armed at his leg.

“It’s me, bro,” the voice said a little louder, the hooded head following Jr. Chine as he juked and stuck.

“Joker?” Jr. Chine asked.

“Yeah.”

Jr. Chine cocked his body, ready to spring into action, then reached out and peeked under the hood. It was Joker, though with all the welts, the fluvial bruises around his eyes, the fresh slices to his cheeks, it was hard to tell. Jr. Chine’s trigger arm went limp, his elbow finally unlocked after what had felt like hours. Vision reeled itself back in. The burning in his arm remained, but he relaxed and put the small gun back in his pocket.

“Hey, bro,” Joker said. “Angel’s on his way to kill Susan.”

“Susan who?” Jr. Chine said.

“His lady, bro.”

There are cities down there, Little Egypt said so. He said they’re smaller cities, not nearly as many people, but they have traffic and L’s, just like we do up here.

The subway used to connect. Little Egypt said that too. That the Douglas-Park B Line used to take a steep dive right after LaSalle Street and descend into the cities below, neighborhoods stacked on top of one another deep into the earth, like department-store floors. “But then,” he said, “they built downtown, John Hancock and all that. Now the subway just flies right over, Jackson Boulevard, Monroe. People up here don’t even care anymore.”

I saw Little Egypt’s suitcase once. He kept it stored beneath his bed, packed and ready to go if he ever got the call to leave. “My grandfather took this baby all around the world,” Little Egypt said; he hoisted the suitcase onto his bed. “Should handle a trip below, I’d think.” He patted the swollen hide, then curled out his bottom lip and nodded.

Inside were a lot of shorts. On the underside of the top flap a ziplock bag had been taped. A thick purple cross had been drawn on it, and beneath the cross, FIRST AID was written in large block letters. He untaped the bag and split the seal. Band-Aids, gauze, a spray-can of Bactine, a pamphlet on snake bites poured out over his blue comforter. A few sets of chopsticks from Jade of the East Chinese spilled out as well. I lifted a set. Along the paper wrapper JADE OF THE EAST was written in familiar Oriental script. A local address followed, then a picture of a Chinese temple, layered, like a playing-card house.

“That’s my grandmother’s favorite restaurant,” Little Egypt said. He took the set of chopsticks from me and tore off the temple end. He split the sticks. “They make great splints.” He placed one along his thin forearm. “And communication tools.” He tapped out Morse code: “SOS,” he whispered. “And great weapons too.” He did a pirouette, then waved the chopsticks in my face. “Hi-ya,” he snarled. “But they don’t really fight down there.” He straightened and put the chopsticks back in their paper sleeve. “Really, it’s a more peaceful society.”

Double-D batteries were taped like shotgun shells along the inside wall of the suitcase. From between his piles of T-shirts and shorts he pulled a red plastic flashlight. He offered it to me and I flicked it on, casting a sharp yellow beam against his white wall. “I’ve had that puppy for years,” Egypt said. “Never failed me. Not once.” He curled out his lower lip again and shook his head. “Never.” I flicked off the lamp and handed it back to him, grip first, the way one does a pistol or switchblade. “I mean, they have lights down there and everything,” Little Egypt said. He tucked his flashlight back in between his clothes. “But it’s better to be safe than sorry.” He pulled a roll of clear packing tape from a bureau drawer and retaped the first-aid kit to its position on the underside of the top flap.

Sometime later, one morning before school, Little Egypt was at my door, suitcase at his side. He was dressed in his church clothes: a red knit sweater, tan slacks, brown loafers so polished they seemed wet. It was early spring, the sun was unusually high and bright.

“Just wanted to say bye,” Egypt said. He smiled, his row of tiny teeth nearly fluorescent. I offered to walk him, and I quickly dressed and washed my face. Over the running water of our kitchen sink, I heard Egypt on our front stoop, whistling.

We walked down May Street.

“I left a note for my grandmother,” Little Egypt said. “She should see it when she gets back from church. I’ll write her, of course. I just didn’t want to be too specific, tell her exactly where I’m going. Sometimes,” Little Egypt said, “a man just has to break free.” I nodded.

We passed the graffiti-covered field house of Dvorak Park, the pool, shards of broken glass catching sunlight along the concrete deck.

“That’s one thing I won’t miss,” Little Egypt said, looking to the pool. “The pollution. They got a system down there, you know. Cleans all the streets. They never even heard of graffiti.” He gave a nod as if there were a valuable lesson in this. Our field house’s shower-room walls held messages: Ambrose Love. Flaca, You Know I Still Love You, Junebug.

At Twenty-First Street we turned the corner and walked toward the abandoned junkyard. “Well,” Egypt sighed. He put his suitcase down. “I guess this is it.” He stuck out his hand. “I’ll be sure to write, and I hope to see you again sometime.” He clicked his tongue twice and winked. Then he lifted his suitcase, turned, and walked down the quiet street. As he walked, the heavy suitcase bounded off his short leg; he held out his opposite arm like a cantilever. I realized then how small he was.