them all on a floor this big, littered as it was with wood, corrugated metal and other junk. Keith and Bobby would have to wait. We were the ones doing the work.
Just as Marco—who was standing about twenty feet away from me—picked up an arrow, looked at it, and said, “ Di qui sono le freccie con le croci ?” Who do the arrows with crosses on them belong to? —a window above us, one of the two that were still intact, cracked; and the arrow that passed through it arced slowly through the air, down through the sunlight, hitting Marco in the neck, near his shoulder.
Marco screamed. I may have screamed too. I don't remember. All I remember is Marco—pale, eyes frantic, hands shaking—grabbing at the shaft, wanting to pull it out, but not wanting to because when he touched it, it hurt too much. Keith's friend ran over and we both stood beside Marco. There wasn't much blood, but there was this arrow sticking out of him, and we didn't know what to do. We'd seen lots of westerns, but we still didn't. Did you try to pull it out? It didn't have an arrowhead on it. It was just a wooden arrow with a smooth metal tip on it. Could you pull it out safely? Were you supposed to wait and let a doctor do it? How could you pull it out safely if the person was trembling and might at any moment start screaming and flailing at you?
"Stop moving!” I said.
" Che dolore! Che dolore !” Marco was saying, but he wasn't crying. He was being strong.
"I know it hurts, Marco, but you've got to stop moving. It's in your neck."
We could hear shouting outside on the hill. Keith and Bobby had heard Marco's scream and knew why he was screaming.
They were inside in no time, running toward us, Keith without his bow, his brother still holding his. I jumped to conclusions.
"You shot him, you asshole!” I screamed at Bobby, not caring if it made him mad. “Keith said you wouldn't keep shooting and you did."
Bobby was looking at the arrow, at Marco's neck, Marco's face, how hard he was shaking. He took Marco by the arm—his good arm—and said, “We need to get him out of here."
"You shot him,” I shouted again.
"No, I didn't,” Bobby said. He didn't say it angrily. He just said it, as a fact, looking at Keith.
Then I knew what had happened. There had been only those two windows left. Keith had known his brother wanted them. Not to be bested, Keith had gone for one of them. Even though we were inside, he'd gone for it, thinking, “What's one arrow in such a big building and only three boys?” When he'd heard the scream, he'd dropped the guilty weapon.
"You said you wouldn't shoot,” I said to Keith hoarsely. It was stupid to keep saying it, but I didn't know what else to say.
"Fuck you,” Keith said back, and I thought he was going to hit me.
"We need to get him out of here,” Bobby said again, his hand on Marco's good arm as he tried to guide him toward the door. “Tell him to stop wiggling, Brad. Tell him it's dangerous."
"I already did,” I said, but did it again.
Marco did his best to stop wiggling, to not grab at the arrow again, and we were all heading toward the door—
When a figure, a woman, stepped from the shadows of the corner.
We stopped dead. Were we imagining this? No, it was definitely a woman, a young woman, and she was looking at us silently. Where had she come from? Was she the one who'd made the first sound, and had been watching us all this time? But Keith had checked that corner, hadn't he? He'd kicked litter around there, hadn't he? He'd have seen her. There'd been a table in that corner, nothing more, right? Or had he missed her in the shadows? Had she been sitting on the floor maybe, and he'd missed her? Why would anyone do that, though? Why would anyone, especially a woman, sit in the shadows of this building watching us?
Not knowing what else to do—you could tell that even Bobby wasn't sure how to handle this—we continued toward the door; but when we were almost to it, she stepped in front of
Just as Marco—who was standing about twenty feet away from me—picked up an arrow, looked at it, and said, “ Di qui sono le freccie con le croci ?” Who do the arrows with crosses on them belong to? —a window above us, one of the two that were still intact, cracked; and the arrow that passed through it arced slowly through the air, down through the sunlight, hitting Marco in the neck, near his shoulder.
Marco screamed. I may have screamed too. I don't remember. All I remember is Marco—pale, eyes frantic, hands shaking—grabbing at the shaft, wanting to pull it out, but not wanting to because when he touched it, it hurt too much. Keith's friend ran over and we both stood beside Marco. There wasn't much blood, but there was this arrow sticking out of him, and we didn't know what to do. We'd seen lots of westerns, but we still didn't. Did you try to pull it out? It didn't have an arrowhead on it. It was just a wooden arrow with a smooth metal tip on it. Could you pull it out safely? Were you supposed to wait and let a doctor do it? How could you pull it out safely if the person was trembling and might at any moment start screaming and flailing at you?
"Stop moving!” I said.
" Che dolore! Che dolore !” Marco was saying, but he wasn't crying. He was being strong.
"I know it hurts, Marco, but you've got to stop moving. It's in your neck."
We could hear shouting outside on the hill. Keith and Bobby had heard Marco's scream and knew why he was screaming.
They were inside in no time, running toward us, Keith without his bow, his brother still holding his. I jumped to conclusions.
"You shot him, you asshole!” I screamed at Bobby, not caring if it made him mad. “Keith said you wouldn't keep shooting and you did."
Bobby was looking at the arrow, at Marco's neck, Marco's face, how hard he was shaking. He took Marco by the arm—his good arm—and said, “We need to get him out of here."
"You shot him,” I shouted again.
"No, I didn't,” Bobby said. He didn't say it angrily. He just said it, as a fact, looking at Keith.
Then I knew what had happened. There had been only those two windows left. Keith had known his brother wanted them. Not to be bested, Keith had gone for one of them. Even though we were inside, he'd gone for it, thinking, “What's one arrow in such a big building and only three boys?” When he'd heard the scream, he'd dropped the guilty weapon.
"You said you wouldn't shoot,” I said to Keith hoarsely. It was stupid to keep saying it, but I didn't know what else to say.
"Fuck you,” Keith said back, and I thought he was going to hit me.
"We need to get him out of here,” Bobby said again, his hand on Marco's good arm as he tried to guide him toward the door. “Tell him to stop wiggling, Brad. Tell him it's dangerous."
"I already did,” I said, but did it again.
Marco did his best to stop wiggling, to not grab at the arrow again, and we were all heading toward the door—
When a figure, a woman, stepped from the shadows of the corner.
We stopped dead. Were we imagining this? No, it was definitely a woman, a young woman, and she was looking at us silently. Where had she come from? Was she the one who'd made the first sound, and had been watching us all this time? But Keith had checked that corner, hadn't he? He'd kicked litter around there, hadn't he? He'd have seen her. There'd been a table in that corner, nothing more, right? Or had he missed her in the shadows? Had she been sitting on the floor maybe, and he'd missed her? Why would anyone do that, though? Why would anyone, especially a woman, sit in the shadows of this building watching us?
Not knowing what else to do—you could tell that even Bobby wasn't sure how to handle this—we continued toward the door; but when we were almost to it, she stepped in front of
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