Oren Hobbs was seated at a table for two in the Water Street Cafe, where he waited for the sheriff and watched boys shooting hoops in the playground across the road.

The large plate-glass window looked out on the schoolhouse. Though built to resemble a hundred-year-old landmark, that building had replaced the abandoned mill-town school when he was in kindergarten. The large gymnasium was underground, a concession to the Coventry Landmark Society, defunct with the demise of its only member, Millard Straub, who could not bear the idea of his hotel being dwarfed by any larger structure.

The wealthier citizens had made it possible for every child in town to obtain a fine education, though teams for football and basketball had to draw their players from a smaller-than-average pool of students, and contests with other towns had always been a county-wide joke.

Oren's last day of high school had been capped by a night game with an unexpected twist. The bleachers had rocked with stomping feet, applause and wild cheers from the crowd, though not a single point was scored. No player ever touched a basketball.

Visitors and townspeople had witnessed the spectacle of schoolboys bursting through the locker-room door, Dave Hardy half flying and Oren following on the run. The two had rolled, boy over boy, to the center of the gymnasium. None of the spectators had complained about the fight- they loved it-though the blood gushing from Dave's nose had made the damage look more exciting than it was.

When it was over, and the fight fans had gone home happy, the principal's office smelled of blood and sweaty boys. Oren's knuckles were raw that night, and so was Dave Hardy's face. They sat with Josh in chairs lined up before the desk. Without being told, the adults queued up like schoolchildren to stand with their backs to the office wall-all except Hannah, who stood behind Josh's chair.

Oren had a clear memory of Hannah fussing with a bandage that covered his little brother's wound. Josh had looked up at her, eyes pleading, silently begging, Don't baby me, not here, not now. With a slow wink of understanding, she had turned away from him to join the judge and Mrs. Hardy at the back of the room, where they kept company with a worried Coach White.

Principal Mars made eye contact with each of his three students in turn. "I don't suppose you kids want to tell me who started the fight." After a few seconds of boy-squirming silence, the man said, "No, of course not. Much too easy. What was I thinking?"

Heavy footsteps clumped forward from the back of the room. Without turning his head, Oren knew it was Mrs. Hardy. He could smell her.

"I bet it's got something to do with Josh's camera." There was a sneer in her voice when she said, "Maybe Josh took a shot of my boy's little pecker."

"That's enough, Mavis." The principal's tone was not angry. He seemed only bone-weary of his dealings with Dave's mother. This was hardly her first visit to his office. He focused his attention on Josh. "You're not on the basketball team. What were you doing in the locker room with a camera?"

"I was taking pictures for the school yearbook. No pecker shots… sir." Josh gave the principal his widest, goofiest grin, and this was the boy's best trick, for the man had to smile; he was helpless to do otherwise. Josh was that charming.

"It was my idea," Coach White called out from the back wall. "I brought the boy into the locker room to get a few pregame shots."

The principal beamed at the coach. "So you were there when the fight started. Well, now we're getting somewhere." He pointed to Josh. "This boy was hit from behind. Is that right, Coach?"

"No!" Coach White stepped forward to lay both hands flat on the desk, insulted and on the offensive. "None of my kids would ever do a thing like that."

"Really? I couldn't help but notice-the bandage is on the back of the boy's head."

In a more offhand tone, the coach said, "Josh cut his head on a locker with a broken handle… Dave could've pushed him… It might've been an accident."

The heat of a blush rose in Josh's face. The scalp wound had been his only battle scar-ever-and now all his hopes of shared glory were gone.

Oren had seen his own error in that moment. He had been too quick to go after Dave, never giving Josh a chance to strike one blow for himself. That night, his little brother would have given anything to be the boy standing under the bright lights of the gym with blood on his hands.

"David?" The principal rapped the desk, calling for Dave Hardy's attention. "Is that right? You bounced Josh off a locker, and then his big brother went after you? Now why would you do a thing like that to a smaller boy? What set you off?"

All three maintained their schoolboy's honor code: Thou shalt not rat on thine enemies.

Once again, crazy Mrs. Hardy advanced her theory on the camera shot of an undersized penis. "Not very good porno in my estimation."

The departing group of boys and adults were gathered in the corridor, all but Dave's mother, when they heard the principal yell, "Mavis, sit your ass down in that chair!" And the office door was slammed shut.

The judge herded his two boys toward the stairwell, and Oren turned back to see their housekeeper reach out to the enemy and lightly squeeze Dave Hardy's arm. He suspected that she was offering comfort. Whatever she said to him was too low to be heard from any distance.

Outside in the parking lot, his father was heading toward the car, keys jingling in his hand. Oren hung back to wait for Hannah. When she appeared on the schoolhouse steps, he faced her down, arms folded in quiet resolve. "I'm done with Dave Hardy. I don't care what the judge says."

Josh tried vain hand signals to tell his brother that the judge was coming up behind him on cat's feet. Both boys hated those crepe-soled sandals, though they had agreed that the old man's long ponytail was kind of cool.

"It's over," Oren said to Hannah, oblivious to his brother's sign language. "I'm not asking Dave home to dinner one more time."

"Yes, you will." The judge smiled, so pleased to see his firstborn spin around so quick. Gotcha. With the waving arms of a goose tender, he shooed his family into the waiting Mercedes.

Purchased that very day, its interior had the wonderful new-car smell of rich leather. Oren opened the rear door and inhaled deeply And then he was told that, because of the fight, he would not be allowed to drive it for one solid month. Oren slumped low in the backseat, and Josh slumped in sympathy.

They rode in silence for a mile of dark road before pulling into the driveway. Horatio came bounding toward them, barking and slobbering, his jaw hanging open in a dog's idea of hysterical laughter. Up on his hind legs, dancing in the headlights, he was so excited to see them-so eager to get at them. He had never grasped the fact that the car could not bring his family all the way home until he got out of the way. Fortunately, the dog was easily distracted. Hannah fished about in her purse for a plastic bag where she kept one of Horatio's soggy, smelly toys. Tossing a toy into the woods sometimes worked, sometimes not.

The dog was deliberating.

The judge used the time to reiterate that Oren certainly would invite David Hardy home to dinner on the following night. "That boy has gone to live in hell, and it's no fault of his. No wonder he acts out from time to time. So, once a week, we will reach into the pit and pull David out for a good meal in a sane house. That boy is your good deed."

"You mean like the old lady on Paulson Lane," said Oren, reminding the judge of another good deed done under duress. "She died."