Of All the Animals

By Michael ONeal

Were the four hoodlums at CAMP 2020 victims of accidental deaths, suicide, or were they murdered?

It's 1978 in the foothills of California's Sierra Nevada Mountains, where Captain John Goode has set up a strictly run camp for teenage criminals--societal rejects. Goode's program has had moderate successes with turning troubled boys around, until one kid after another are found dead on the strongly controlled grounds.

It soon becomes obvious that the boys are being systematically murdered, each killing becoming more brazen and violent than the last!

Is the murderer one of the counselors Goode trusts or one of the boys?

Goode is able to keep a lid on things until an overzealous cub reporter, Eric Mullins, gets wind of the deaths. Will Goode be able to control the young upstart like he tries to control the camp?

Perhaps.

That is until Ray Lopez becomes the newest "camper." Lopez is trouble: there's bad, and then there is rattlesnake mean! Lopez stirs the emotions of the other boys from adulation to fear with unchecked violence, a total disregard of the rules, and blatant defiance from the moment his handcuffs are removed, and he is handed over to Goode.

Goode's problems have just become much worse, soon to become climactic in every regard, and a good man's intentions go horribly wrong at CAMP 2020.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637102312

Book preview

Chapter 1

The disappearing glow of a full moon shown like an ethereal eye of light against the dew of an early morning chill. The dawn of a new day would gradually brighten the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, adding a picturesque beauty to an already aesthetic setting in this valley of walnut and orange orchards, scrub oak, maple trees, and sugar pines. Twinkling lights from the sparse number of homes nestled there on the lower hills blinked like stationary fireflies along the undulating slopes.

The large pond on the old VanDellon Ranch mirrored the slopes above it with shimmering clarity as an awakening dawn rose in the east. Biting bugs searched for blood, a few lingering bats flitted and darted about in search of flying insects, and frogs and spiders hunted or lay in wait for flying or crawling snacks as well. The rolling, deep-throated burp of bullfrogs carried across the pond in an even rhythm, an occasional splash signaling an amphibian leap into the night-chilled water. Crickets rubbed their legs in an orchestration of chirps; birds began tweeting and singing in the predawn of the new day.

A light fog, like slowly wafting steam from a hot bath, rose from the pond. Ducks paddled a sporadic pattern in the water, coasting, paddling again, some still waddling into the water, their bills no longer tucked under a wing in slumber. As some of the teals, mallards, and mud hens entered the water, they were careful to avoid the soggy lifeless form that lay there in the muck, water lightly lapping against the sodden clothing and the pale, water-wrinkled face of the corpse. It was the only noticeably dead thing in the pond.

The chilling scream of a screech owl slaughtered the relative quiet of the morning.

Captain! Rodney burst through the office door without knocking, his word a gasp of a single breath. You’d better get out here. We found Eavers.

Captain John Goode looked up from a pile of files already knowing the worst, his early morning work abruptly interrupted. He and Rodney had served two tours in Vietnam together, and he could not have read the man better if the two had been raised as brothers. Goode knew, without spoken confirmation, that the boy was dead. Danny Eavers had been noted missing since the early morning, 5:00 a.m., bed count.

Not again! John’s anger was evident, his teeth clenched, his words coming like steam from a coughing boiler. Where? How?

Rodney Small filled the inside of the doorway, a big hand on the jamb, the other on the doorknob. His name did not describe his size. Rodney was just over six feet tall and bulky from nose to toes, not sinewy or tall as was his friend John Goode but able to force his will with intimidation when necessary, which was a none too rare necessity at the camp.

In the pond. Drowned. Looks like he took an unauthorized swim, maybe cramped up, swallowed a lot of pond. He washed up on the far side. Wilhoit found him.

The captain checked his watch: just past six o’clock. He grabbed his green windbreaker, the one with the camp logo written across the back in bold white letters, pulling it on as he passed Rodney into the still dark fall morning. He quick-marched it down the slope to waters’ edge, Small at his heels. Rodney reflexively read the blocked white letters on the back of the jacket as Goode shrugged it on over broad shoulders. He saw the same logo several times a day on the shirts and jackets of the staff here at the camp, but he hadn’t tired of the slogan, one that he and Goode had thought up three years earlier. The coat simply read, CAMP 2020. Below that title, written in a smile-arc in smaller font, FOCUS ON THE FUTURE. Danny Eavers’s future on earth had been canceled.

The two men jogged the rest of the way down the path from John’s office, their exhaled air seen as puffs of smoke in the early October air, to the edge of the pond, about a hundred yards away. Rodney pointed to where flashlights played over the ground around the pond and over the soggy clothing on the body of Danny Eavers. The sky was becoming marginally lighter, but the flashlights were still being used to look for smaller evidence of foul play. Just in case. This was not the first accidental death on the ranch. And it was ultimately worrisome to John Goode.

The teenage boy was splattered with gooey gunk, along with a smattering of algae. Danny had come to the camp in August, just two months earlier. Like all the boys who had been admitted, he was on the edge of getting himself into more and more serious trouble with the law, his parents, and at school, mostly due to his use of drugs and alcohol, which had become a daily routine. Along with his drug use, issues with girlfoes, as Counselor Wilhoit called them, added up to stresses and temptations Danny found too hard to handle or resist. For most of the boys at CAMP 2020, all the above issues catered to their troubles or conflicted with them so badly that their direction became one of total confusion, violence, self-destructive behaviors, and frequently, complete loss of control over their Freudian id. As a last resort, after much expense with failed counseling and ineffective rehab, Danny’s mother and stepfather had finally decided on CAMP 2020 as a means of trying to regain the son they had never really had control of since the boy had turned three years old.

Mr. and Mrs. Stenson—Danny kept his original father’s surname even though he had never met the man—had come to a point where they felt their hands tied and then thrown up in hopeless exasperation, telling themselves that they really had done all they possibly could. They would look elsewhere for help. Captain John Goode was accustomed to the scenario and still frustrated by it, but that was the precise reason he had come up with the idea for the camp.

He believed that through provocative and creative methods, along with some good ole old-school discipline, he and his staff could turn some of society’s troubled male youth into respectable and productive members of the same society that was partially responsible for screwing them up in the first place. Within the contract, in bold print, was a disclaimer stating that CAMP 2020 would use necessary means, including hands-on corporal types of consequences and punishments to bring boys in line to acceptable societal standards, to curb and/or modify their behaviors. Goode had proved the camp to be successful with many adolescent boys in the almost three years of its operation.

Time magazine had even devoted page space for a short article on John and the camp, greatly increasing his clientele but also drawing the attention of those who waited like vultures for the failure of any kind of reform or innovative thinking that went against previously set paradigms. The death of Eavers, the fourth in the past six months, would provide plenty of ammo to groups that wanted to see the program fail and to shoot it down.

If found out.

Thus far, with the help of friends in the sheriff’s department and the DA’s office in two counties, Goode had been able to keep the disasters out of the press, if not hush-hushed almost entirely. But after three deaths, now four, it was becoming more difficult to do. No matter what, all the deaths were deemed accidents. Eavers was the second drowning. The first had happened under the bridge that spanned the moat to the bunkhouse. The boy, one Oscar Santi, was evidently crossing from the round bunkhouse to the bathrooms late one night in July. He supposedly decided to monkey-bar it under the bridge rather than walk across. Many boys did this during daytime, racing, showing off. Camp staff permitted it. Oscar had slipped off, hit his head on a concrete footing near the shore, then breathed in water while unconscious.

Carl Fry, the first death, had fallen from the climbing cliffs at the rear of the extensive property on an outing after hours, and Sal Cardoza had been stung by bees while hiking alone along one of the oak-lined trails. He had been terribly allergic to bee venom and had been stung repeatedly. Sal, they had almost saved, the camp staff in the know with his condition, but the antivenom was too long in reaching him. EpiPens were more than a decade from invention. The antivenom had been misplaced in the medical cabinet that hung in the kitchen.

Now again, Captain Goode would have to deal with it. He was a good strategist and appreciated adversity, but not of this sort. He was saddened and worried.

Lem, you found him? Goode spoke to the bespectacled counselor who stood before him. Lem Wilhoit was built much like Rodney, just a shorter version. Of all the counselors who worked at the camp, Lem was one of the smaller at five foot nine inches, but also one of the most physically capable of taking care of himself when faced with aggression. He did not have an overly athletic cut of physic, but he was solid and the instructor for the martial arts classes. There were few boys on the ranch who thought they could take on Counselor Wilhoit and expect to best him. Those who thought so were not the roundest marbles in the bag. Most knew much better than to try, some learning the lesson the hard way. Despite Wilhoit’s toughness, he was also the funniest man on staff, able to imitate not only the voices of others but also their idiosyncrasies to a tee, with comedic exaggeration that put most of his audience in tears of laughter.

Lem was a complex mix of stoic, comical, grassroots philosopher and stereotypical redneck, down to the 3x Stetson he wore instead of the camp ball cap. Everyone liked him, at least all the adults on staff and most of the boys.

Yeah. Lem lowered his voice. The little shit got by me last night, and I knew to keep an eye on him. He was a sneak, and I trusted him about as much as I’d trust a scorpion.

Foul play? The captain was known for brevity.

Not that I can tell, other than the fact he’s wearing his clothes instead of a swimsuit. He seemed a modest kid, despite being a pervert, so I wouldn’t think he’d swim naked, but neither would he swim fully clothed. I gave him a good looking over, at least the best I could under these conditions. No knots on the head that I can see or bruising around the neck, but he’s got a lot of mud on him. So maybe that’s a sign of struggle, but I’m no cop. I haven’t turned him over or even touched him. I figured you’d want to leave that up to the coroner. But I don’t think he decided to go swimming. He’s still got his shoes on too. Hell, I don’t know?

All the men at the camp were well versed in first aid, Lem seeing no reason to attempt it after feeling for a pulse and seeing that Danny’s face had been in the water for some time. Lem disliking the kid had nothing to do with not administering first aid.

Suicide? Goode now asked the obvious question both men were thinking. It was Sammy England who answered, the second man on the scene.

Possible, but I doubt it. Sammy was the biggest man working for the captain. He stood six feet, three inches, tipped the scales at 230 pounds with only a few ounces of what might be considered fat. He wasn’t movie star good-looking, but close, with dark-brown eyes and light-brown hair cut short, parted to the left side. The only flaw on his muscle-ripped body were horrendous scars on his abdomen from a shotgun wound from years before. Rarely was he seen bare chested.

Sammy was Lem’s best audience, laughing uncontrollably at his friend’s antics. They were not best pals, but at times, that would be arguable. They were the only two counselors who socialized with each other outside of the camp.

The only reason I say it’s possible is because…well, anything’s possible. But this kid didn’t fit the profile. He was reasonably well-adjusted as far as that goes, and there were absolutely none of the classic signs for potential suicide.

Sammy was earning a degree in psychology from California State University at Fresno, with an emphasis on adolescent and criminal behaviors, his insights invaluable to Captain Goode.

I saw no signs. He wrote no notes or talked of death. No poetry or letters, but again, none that I saw. He was not giving any of his few possessions away. His appearance or hygiene hadn’t changed. His eating and sleeping habits were all par, and he wasn’t having any trouble with the other boys that I saw. His big quirk was his filthy mouth, especially when it came to how he spoke of girls. I agree with Lem. I think it really was probably an accident. I’m just not sure of a guess as to what caused it. It was what they all hoped, anyway.

It sounded as if Sammy had done the research on the boy just prior to his death, but Goode knew, in fact, he hadn’t. Sammy had a tremendous memory and took his job seriously. Sammy England could rattle off facts about any of the sixty boys at the camp when called upon to do so. He kept a vigilant awareness for any signs of behavioral unease and aggression, and lately, keeping much more alert with any inclinations for suicide.

After John gave the body a quick glance, he spoke to the men around him: Rodney, Lem, Sammy, and Chet Landers, the newest man on staff. Chet had just been recruited from his criminology classes at the College of the Sequoias in Visalia. Chet was planning on becoming a police officer and took a year off from school to do some practical and applicable work. John had welcomed him to the staff, agreeing there would be no problem when Chet chose to leave in six months.

"Chet, cover the body. I’ll get the coroner out here, and when the coroner is finished, I’ll call the parents. Lem and Sammy, keep the boys away from here. In fact, keep them in the dining hall after breakfast until we take care of this. Roll in the TVs, set up some board games. They’ll love the morning off.

Chet, you stay with the body until the coroner and sheriff arrive. Don’t mess with anything. We’ve already totally destroyed the area around the body, but I’m not blaming you guys. I’ll come back down when I see that the sheriff has arrived. Go!

Captain Goode’s military air seldom left him, and as the men went to their tasks, he walked briskly back up the hill towards his office where he would make the calls, pour himself some strong coffee he’d drink black, locate Danny Eavers’s folder, and practice the words he would use over the telephone to the dead boy’s parents. As he did these things, his hands did not shake, but the muscles in his shoulders tightened enough to snap a two-by-four.

In Vietnam, it hadn’t been easy, but in many ways, it was harder now. Death was no stranger to Captain Goode, not meaning that he wanted frequent visits from the creature with the scythe. His early morning peace, used for reflection and catch-up work, had been drastically and horribly disrupted. Goode was saddened at the death of Danny Eavers, considering it a failure on his part without feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. Anger was the dominant emotion.

Anger and frustration.

By the time he reached his office door, his forearms were cramped due to the ferocity of his clenched fists. He knew that CAMP 2020 had a tenuous existence at best. He did not need dead boys popping up every two months! And the chance of four deadly accidents in such a short space of time seemed well beyond the odds of probability. The more Captain Goode dissected each death, the more the thought that the four boys might have been murdered scratched at his brain. Never having been a man who sits and waits to react, by the time Goode had reached for the doorknob of his office, he had committed himself to a plan a friend of his on the Hanford Police Department and another friend in the DA’s office had suggested to him after the third death: Sal Cardoza. The boys had since posthumously referred to Sal as Bee Boy.

Chapter 2

October of 1978 saw the funeral of Pope John Paul I, the LA Dodgers take the Pennant—which got more notice from Americans than the pope’s death, and approval of the Susan B. Anthony dollar coins by Congress. But the damn coins were the exact size of quarters, vending machines unable to note the difference right along with the people who thumbed them in.

Dipshit skinny Sid Vicious was charged with his girlfriend’s murder, bigger dipshit James Earl Ray married Anna Sandhu, and the New York Yankees won the Seventy-Fifth World Series, four games to two, against the Los Angeles Dodgers.

October had more notable bad news than good.

Dust boiled behind the Mercury Sable. Although the end of October, rains had yet to come to the San Joaquin Valley in Central California, dry days lingering. John was watching from his office window, having expected the car for half an hour. He again opened the only file that was on his big, heavy decades-old oak desk. His antique 1934 Underwood typewriter was secretly hidden away in the side compartment of the brass-handled secretarial desk. The door appeared to be three drawers, three handles attached to complete the illusion, but when any one handle was pulled, the entire door opened. A spring-loaded shelf upon which the typewriter sat could be pulled out and up into position. John appreciated the innovation. He liked most vintage furniture. It was easy to imagine the real estate agent who might have used the desk and typewriter through the 1950s and ’60s.

A picture of a handsome teenage black youth was paper-clipped to the top right corner of the file jacket. Nathaniel Thomas was seventeen. He came from a middle-class family who lived in Selma. His original parents were still together, a rarity for most of the boys at CAMP 2020. Both mother and father should be in the fast-approaching Mercury along with their son. Goode was glad to have a new boy join the camp so soon after the death of Eavers. A live boy replacing a dead boy did much to relieve his psyche and bolster his determination to succeed with the camp.

Eavers’s parents had taken the news surprisingly well. Goode breathed a huge relief when the parents did not blame him or the camp. Even if they had, he would’ve understood. The other parents had reacted similarly, which was a sad commentary. The only barb had come from Cardoza’s mother, who couldn’t understand how the antivenom couldn’t be found for her son’s bee stings.

Goode had the feeling that Eavers’s parents had already prepared themselves for the news they felt would eventually come. It seemed to John Goode that these parents had done all their crying in the last couple of years before Danny’s death. He pessimistically wondered how many of the tears were shed in relief now that their troublesome son was gone. Gawd, what a terrible thought.

Goode turned his attention back to the manila folder before him. Nathaniel Thomas had been picked up for shoplifting twice, having no need to steal. From the figures on the sheet, Goode saw that the boy’s father made more than a decent living as a supervisor in charge of research and development at the Sun Maid plant, a fruit factory specializing in the valley-grown Thompson seedless grapes for raisins. Nathaniel had been kicked out of school on numerous occasions for everything from fighting to truancy to theft to willful disobedience, along with violent disruptive behaviors to complete apathy, another self-destructive kid who just really didn’t give a shit.

Nathaniel was angry, but at what?

The last straw had involved drug use. Leo Thomas could tolerate, and felt he could handle, about anything but drug use. After trying to plant a foot firmly in the path of his son’s behavior, as well as up his son’s ass, ending in a fistfight, Mr. Thomas looked elsewhere. On the recommendation of the school’s principal, another acquaintance of Goode’s, Leo decided to come and at least have a talk with the big man at CAMP 2020.

On Goode’s instructions, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas had packed some of their son’s belongings into a duffel bag, making it easier on all parties if the Thomases decided that they wanted their son to remain at the camp. If they were serious about trying to change their boy’s behaviors, they should be prepared to take the steps to do so immediately.

Chet Landers met the car at the gate and greeted the family with serious smiles, checking their identifications with his appointment list. Kenny Sams, the retired cop who was manning the booth, waved the car through the electric gate that normally stayed open during daylight hours. The gate would be rolled shut and locked, the power for the electric fence activated, at 5:00 p.m. admittance curfew. John Goode had already begun his walk down the hill to meet the family.

It was a sunny, bright October day in the foothills above the valley, a day that encouraged sniffs of mountain air, gazes at the sky, and last picnics for the season. The leaves of oak, fruitless mulberry, Modesto ash, and sycamore trees were beginning their turns to shades of red, orange, and yellow. The pungent smell of burning yard waste filtered its way up to the camp from the neighboring farms, giving physical proof of fall in the air. Nat Thomas noticed none of this and certainly was not in a picnic mood. Sammy England was at the door of the Mercury as it eased to a stop in the small gravel lot just south and up a slope from the cafeteria, the only parking area on the property.

Good afternoon, Mr. Thomas, Sammy spoke as the well-kept middle-aged black man stood from the car. He wore creased dark slacks and a pullover sweater. They shook hands. Leo Thomas could not help but gawk for a second or two at Sammy’s size and evident strength. He had seen bigger men before but few who possessed an appearance of such solid mass and sheer power. Sammy wasn’t a rippling Schwarzenegger, but it was damn close. The man looked like he was sculpted from marble, smooth and harder than the stone itself, evident even past the clothing and jacket. The smile Sammy wore comforted Mr. Thomas more than Leo thought would be possible. Sammy’s face matched the smile with genuine sincerity, openness, and a twinkle of friendly in the brown eyes. Leo wondered at the transformation that would take place if that face were angered.

Another thing Leo Thomas deeply appreciated and respected was the handshake. Leo, having been ’round the block, as they say, had known men who imposed their size and strength on others needlessly. Bullies were what they are called, and for some men, this oppressive characteristic existed far beyond childhood. Leo’s assessment was idiotically ironic considering how he ran his own household.

Sammy’s handshake was firm but far from crushing as it obviously could have been. Here was a man of character. Here was a man who granted respect until given a reason not to. Here was a big ole white boy not to be messed with, but Sammy did not make that an evident egotistical or racist thing. And in those few quick seconds of appraisal, Leo also hoped his son could learn from this man. As quickly as Leo felt he had accurately judged Sammy England, he could not for the life of him understand or second-guess the actions of his own son. Leo was blindly good at removing himself from that equation.

Captain Goode is on his way down to escort you up the hill to his office. Sammy noted and greeted the frail Mrs. Thomas and caught a sneer from son Nathaniel. Not a bad-looking kid until his lip curled in a slant, showing his upper teeth like a junkyard dog. Sammy greeted the boy as well, taking two steps toward him to shake his hand, Sammy’s smile remaining genuinely friendly.

Get that ham hock hand away from me, man!

Nathaniel was not impressed or showed he was intimidated by Sammy’s size. This came from the boy thinking he knew the limits of physical force adults could legally use on minors. He’d certainly used this knowledge at school, like many of his delinquent brothas had. He had physically pushed more than one teacher away from him when he’d been confronted, sassed, and cussed at some of those same teachers, male and female, even spat upon Mr. Williams, the PE coach. All the time knowing they couldn’t do a damn thing about it except give him another three-day vacation from school, which was his fuckin’ goal in the first place!

Nathaniel had the build of a welterweight boxer, only five eight, but it was evident the kid was fast on his feet and quick with his reflexes. His face was ebony smooth, unblemished, scar free. His head jerked from side to side; he continually shrugged and moved his shoulders, like loosening up for a fight. Sammy correctly surmised the kid was nervous, making him overtly aggressive. It was Nathaniel’s first mistake at the camp. Before Leo Thomas could react to his son’s rudeness, Sammy spoke.

Nathaniel, whether you stay here or not, when I extend my hand to a person in greeting, I expect that person to do the same in return.

Still smiling, Sammy reached down, took hold of the boy’s right wrist with his big left hand, and raised it to his own right hand. Nathaniel gasped involuntarily as he felt the vicelike pressure on his wrist, but that pain was mellow compared to the pressure of the hand that now enveloped his. Nathaniel reflexively pulled his hand in retreat with shoulder and back, to no avail.

I’m glad to meet you, Sammy said, smiling and pumping Nathaniel’s hand slightly, his grip set and unrelenting. Nathaniel’s sneer was replaced by a wide-eyed Hey, you can’t do that boyish helplessness. Mr. Thomas thought of intervening but quickly realized he was getting a preview of what the camp or school or facility or whatever this was all about. He watched, almost snickering as his son grimaced, mouth agape, not knowing what to do or who to look to for relief. Leo Thomas knew in that moment, like many parents before him, that this was exactly the place his son needed to be!

Mrs. Thomas, her uncertainty evident, fidgeted with the strap of her purse, her eyebrows pushed together, making her appear young and helpless—which she was.

Still with Nathaniel’s hand in his, a slight movement of arm with every other word he spoke, Sammy said, Nathaniel, next time I or anyone on staff offers to shake your hand in greeting, I expect you to return the gesture. Do you understand?

Sammy’s friendly but no-nonsense expression conveyed strongly suggested compliance. Nathaniel did not answer, so Sammy squeezed, waited. Nathaniel quickened his slow uptake, nodded his head, wanting reprieve more than anything and willing to kiss boots to get it. Sammy released the kid’s bloodless hand as Goode marched up to the car. Captain Goode, tall and fit, ramrod straight, approached the party, and once again, there were introductions. When John introduced himself to Nathaniel, it took no more than a shuffle of Sammy’s heavy work boots to inspire the boy to quickly raise his right, still numb hand to shake that of Goode’s. Lesson 1 had been taught and learned…maybe.

Glad to meet you. John Goode almost smiled. Now if you’ll come with me, we can discuss things in my office.

Sammy nodded in approval as he watched the Thomases and Captain Goode walk up the gentle incline toward the chapel and John’s office that sat on the western border of the fenced property. Sammy figured this kid wouldn’t be too hard to turn around. He seemed bright enough.

As the entourage made their way along the side and past the front of the cafeteria, then beside and along the barracks moat up toward the office, John engaged the parents in small talk, establishing a base to work from and getting a feel for the couple. He pointed to the different buildings on the property and what they were used for, outlined some of the activities the boys engaged in, and asked a few background questions on the Thomases, an effort to increase their comfort. Nathaniel walked in silence as Captain Goode addressed his conversation solely to the parents.

Nathaniel noticed the boys around the grounds and the activities they were involved in. A man in a judo outfit was taking a group of half a dozen participants through some slow, controlled movements of the arms and legs, the boys focused and intent on their performance. Just behind him and on the opposite side of the cafeteria, there was a basketball/tennis court not in use at the time. What appeared to be the dormitory was located across a bridge that spanned a moat. It was a domed circular structure, two stories tall. It made Nathaniel think of a big wooden carousel, or maybe a giant wooden igloo. An American flag waved from the top like the decoration on a cupcake.

Several boys were cleaning around the grounds, pruning plants, hoeing weeds, even working with little shovels in the dirt! Nathaniel would be damned before he’d do any of that crap. His people had served their time as slaves, and he would have no part of any type of forced labor shit!

Had he taken the time to pay more attention to the boys who were working, he would have noticed many smiles, some camaraderie, even playfulness among them. He did notice that the boys didn’t pay much attention to him, sometimes a quick glance, but that was it. In their shoes, he would have gawked at a newcomer to the point of seeing how much he could intimidate a new kid. Not that he would be staying. No, he’d go along with this little threat, this little fuckin’ scare tactic, knowing his parents would never leave him here, especially his mom. It was just one of their attempts at trying to set him straight, like that thing his father had once made him watch on TV, where kids had been taken into a prison for a taste of what they were headed for. Scared Straight, or some such crap.

Bullshit.

His mom would have none of this teaching him a lesson jazz. They’d go up here to the office, sit around for a while, and go through the motions of what they would do for him. He’d promise to wise up, then Mom and Dad would take him home, and things would be cool until he screwed up again. No big deal.

The path went along the moat, separating the dorm from everything else, in fact, made it an island, the pond washing the far side. The path consisted of old cracked and bulging asphalt. On Nathaniel’s left were a half dozen or so portable classrooms. Nathaniel recognized the structures. They were just like the ones behind his high school where the typing and health classes were held. His soon-to-be-seen-again high school! Only these portables looked to be newer and better cared for. They shined in the fall sun, their white aluminum siding unscathed and graffiti-free. Huh, they didn’t look bad new and clean like that. No dents, no rust, no slap of bad colors and nasty slogans. Hell, there were even flowers and small bushes planted along the front and sides. Boys were weeding and raking the areas.

On