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Gold light casts shadows on perfectly manicured lawns and leafy trees. The sun’s on the verge of setting. I glance at the enormous, fiery orb, turn and run up the driveway. There, just like Sandy said, is a path that runs parallel along the side of the house. My spirits lift.

I run, crouched down, close to the ground. The pebbled path crunches underfoot. Halfway to the gate, I see a rectangle of light on the wood fence. I stop at eye level with the picture window’s bottom ledge.

I look through the window and see a dining room. A family of four (mother, father, one boy, one girl) sit, about to eat dinner. White napkins lie on their perfect laps of creased slacks and ironed dresses. Heads down, hands clasped, they pray. I do a double take: I
know
the father! Edward Parker Jones. He runs Serenity Ridge! WTF! Sandy said “near,” not “living in.”

I stare at these All-American Robots and remember my own. At Ahmed’s house, dinnertime wasn’t scheduled for eating but
for fighting. Someone was always getting mad, shoving back his chair, boycotting dinner or sulking in his room. We were ideal candidates for the most disastrous reality TV show, ever!

Prayer over, the family drops their hands and reaches for the food. The boy reminds me of me when I was eight, shy with hair parted on the side. He feels my gaze and looks up. I stick out my tongue and pull my cheeks apart. He sees me and points. His sister—also blond, hair pulled into two, doll-like ponytails—follows her brother’s tiny finger to the window. She sees me—Arab, probably a
terrorist
—and screams.

I run to the gate and lift the metal latch. It swings open. I run across the lawn and around a kidney-shaped pool. I’m tempted to jump into the blue-green water, toss the rainbow-colored beach balls and hump the giant, inflated walrus. Then, I see a hill over the fence. I am one hundred seventy something steps away from freedom.

I know I shouldn’t look back, but I do. On the back patio, three vicious Dobermans strain at their leashes, long snouts snapping. They make no sound except for an awful hacking sound. Their voice boxes have been cut out.

I know how they feel. They did that to us at the hospital—removed our voices. I often wondered where they stored those voices. In a room? Or, did they flush them down the toilet, all our cries swirling through the sewers, and out to the ocean?

The sliding glass door opens. Mr. Jones steps out. I feel his eyes on my back. He’s on the phone. His calm voice floats across the pool. “He’s in the backyard.” He doesn’t chase me. Mr. Jones always preached solution. His solution to this situation is to reach down and unhook the Dobermans’ collars.

The dogs sprint—toward me. I’m inches from the fence. Arms up, hands open, I leap. Splinters dig into my hands, but—being numbed by drugs—I feel nothing.

Behind me, the dogs’ nails click on pavement. They leap, their sharp fangs nipping at my butt. They fall away and land on their raised ridged backs, pockets hung out their foaming mouths.

Crazy amounts of adrenaline pump through my body. I haul myself up, plant my left foot on top of the fence and hoist my body over.

The dogs recover and leap. Their heads butt, skulls cracking. I feel sharp teeth slice the fabric, digging into my calf, hamstring and ankle. I yank, and pull my leg out their mouths. It feels like razors are dragged over my skin.

The dogs have tasted blood and want more. Sure enough, they go mad sketchy crazy and bounce back up. Aloft, the dogs are Olympic pole vaulters jumping high as the ledge. But their snouts miss my legs and hit the orange sneakers, nudging me up and over the fence.

I drop, land on the hard desert floor and sprint across the sandy stretch between fence and hill. Warm wetness drips off my right leg. Blood. Fuck it. I’m pure, forward movement. Unlike the store, I can see where I’m going. Great. More heights. Nausea. I run.

The ground is lined with rows of cacti and dozens of other nasty, snapping, Dobermanish plants. A snake springs up, jaws open, fangs dripping venom, tongue flickering. But I’m too damn quick and escape. Adrenaline propels me, human rocket fuel. I’m stopwatch ready and reckon I’ll reach the hill in under a minute.

I climb.

Step up, one.

Step up, two.

Step up, three.

Four, five, six, seven, eight.

The faster I count, the higher I climb.

I slip. I stop. Look back. DON’T. It’s
so
far down! One misstep and I could fall. Who would be there to care? Catch me? Edward Parker Jones? No, no one. Forget it. I focus on what I
can
deal with. Like the fact that the hill’s covered with sandy pebbles that roll underfoot like marbles. I put out my hands and steady myself. Up, up, up. I lean forward, body close to the ground.

Close up, this hill is more of a mountain. It’s also a lot steeper than it looked from the house. Scaling the incline, I feel like a monkey on a vine, a Curious George of the Suburban Jungle. Halfway to the top, a wave of weariness washes over me. Behind me, the light fades, casting a golden hue on the brown hill. I want to look back. Don’t look back! I feel my energy fade with the sun as it slips under the horizon. I want to stop, rest.

“
I remember when they brought in a doctor, a real one, to look at me. He said, ‘I’ve never seen damage like this.
’” I want to put up my hands, cover my ears and block out Lance’s voice. But he won’t be quiet, and if I did, I’d lose my balance. “
The best that he could do was cover the head of the penis with a Vaseline-soaked gauze.
” I shout, “Leave me alone!” But Lance continues, “
He said, ‘Loss of sensation was not uncommon and often permanent.
’” I hear his words and my weariness evaporates. The exhaustion drops off my head and my legs obey and I scramble up the hill just as the light on my back peaks, fades and vanishes.

I am near the top.

Then.

Gunshots.

B
ang! Bang! Bang!

Bullets kick up the dirt. It’s night. He can’t see me. I escape into the dark. For once, youth is on my side.

“
One hundred sixty-eight, one hundred sixty-nine and …
” No air, no breath, I drag oxygen into my burning lungs. At the top, I exhale, “
One. Hundred. Seventy!
”

I’m on the other side of the hill. Safe. But at the same time, not. Eleven months ago, I learned safety comes and goes. Safety is temporary. I must be vigilant.

Hands to knees, my mouth hangs open. I suck up air—giant gulps—my abs contracting without expanding, lungs and throat burning.

I look back. My eyesight’s blurry, but I can see Mr. Jones well enough to know that he holds a gun. Behind him, in front of the house, there are flashing lights.

Blueredwhite redbluewhitered.

There’s a clusterfuck of cop cars on the street.

Another memory. Eleven months ago, the cops smashed my bedroom door, pulled me off my bed and out into the hallway. They slapped handcuffs on my wrists and dragged me down the steps to a silver sedan.

I turn away from the memory. Spent, I hobble down the hill.

This side of the mountain is dark. The steps down are uneven, tricky. I remember Sandy’s advice to go slow. I navigate them with help from the city’s blinking, neon light. I don’t know why, but going down the hill becomes easier than going up. Maybe coz you’re going down?

Each step brings me closer to the Vegas strip. Where, I wonder, who or what awaits.

I
am hungry. Starving, really. My stomach was about to go cannibal. Turn and devour itself.

I shove the rolled-up tortillas into my dry mouth. The soft, warm bread wet with butter and stuffed with rice and beans. Mexican food’s never tasted so good. I choke. I forget—burrito numero cuatro in as many minutes. One of the men holds out a water bottle. I take it and suck, hard, till the plastic crinkles. Fluid floods my throat and pushes the food down, into my bloated stomach. I burp. My tummy’s ready to explode. I don’t care.

The men tug at my clothes. “Jouvencito, cambiate la ropa!” Yeah, I comprende. (I took three years junior high school Spanish.) I ignore them. They tell me I need to change. My clothes, my identity, my everything. I’m sick of people telling me what to do. Another one holds out clothes, stacked and folded. They smell clean.

I take the clothes and strip. Back in the desert, I ditched my modesty. Or, maybe my modesty went even earlier than that, in Serenity Ridge. Then, it was different: My modesty was
taken
from me. I reset the button, back in the desert. I
chose
to surrender my modesty. I feel a little flicker and my power come back. Yeah, I
chose
.

I switch trucker hat for safari hat. Blood runs down my leg.
The skin’s covered with red dots, crescent shaped, the dog’s teeth marks. I rip off a piece of fabric and wrap it around the flesh wound.

New outfit, new person? Not really. These clothes couldn’t be any more obvious. Even I know that. The jacket might as well have stenciled RUNAWAY TEEN on the back.

“Eh! Vamos!”

The truck slows, the men part the cloth curtains. Below, I see blurred asphalt. Empowered by my paramilitary G.I. Joe getup, I jump, land on a sidewalk and survey the landscape.

Vegas. The old, bad part.

I turn. I want to say, Thank you, but the truck’s already gone, merging into traffic. Hand to temple, I salute,
Ciao, Che!

Inside the bus station, there aren’t any showgirls handing out twofer fliers. I do notice two roaming Rent-A-Cops. Officer Dick and his partner, Head. My heart leaps. DickHead strolls through the lobby. It’s a cross between a city dump, a mental hospital and casino (Totos Los Desperados). Filthy, the floor and wood benches are crowded with bums. Dressed in rags with smudged faces, they all look the same. Anemic light comes from the blinking-bleeping slot machines.

“San Francisco,” the PA announces. “Boarding, Gate Two.”

Time is short. If I’m not at Gate Two, and on that bus, then I will be caught. If I’m caught, I will be sent back to Serenity Ridge. And if I go back there, mostly likely I will die.

I join the line to the ticket window. I look up at the enormous clock looming over the main entrance. The second hand travels over the white face and black Roman numerals. The hand consumes one minute in one second.

Sweat runs down my neck. Sick or hot? The tourniquet brushes my pant leg. I glance down. Blood’s soaked through the fabric. The stain makes me look like I peed my pants. Yeah, if my dick hung down to my knees.

My heart, already beating at a quick rat-a-tat-tat rate, speeds up. The Rent-A-Cops walk toward the line. Interesting: Death wears ugly, brown polyester uniforms.

“Next!” I step to the narrow metal counter. A prissy clerk sits
behind the thick plate glass partition. Name tag. Randy. Randy gives me a look that’s a cross between recognition (“Girllllll!”) and hate (jealous that I get to walk around in public wearing this butch getup). Randy wears a gold wedding band.

“Destination?”

“First,” I want to ask, “does your wife know you’re gay?”

“San Francisco.”

Randy is Mormon, has eight kids, and wants to come with.

“Round trip or one way?”

“One way.”

“ID.” His voice is flat, inhuman. I look close: robot? Or, Tom Cruise?

I reach into my back pocket. Empty. The wallet’s gone! Panic in the disco. It’s in the pants I left in the truck.

“I—I—I’m sorry. I can’t find it.”

“Can’t sell you no ticket without ID.”

“I have money. Cash. See—”

“Don’t matter.” Randy purses his lips. He loves this. Finding a reason to say no. “Step to the side. Next?”

“But—” I check the other pocket. There. The wallet.

“There a problem?” The Rent-A-Cops loom, human book-ends or gladiators with prefrontal lobotomies.

Much as I hate these two minimum-wage morons, I know they can stop me—from buying the ticket. And I need that ticket to get on the bus. And I
must
get on that bus. Because I cannot stop moving. Because if I stop for even one second, I will die. Forward momentum being everything right now.

I ignore Officer Dick and Head. The LAPD drop-outs won’t take the hint. They don’t move. Death is a stubborn SOB.

I focus, remove the wallet, open it and slide out the (fake) ID. I drop the plastic rectangle on the metal tray. My hands shake: Parkinson’s or paranoia, I need to get a grip.

Randy takes the ID without looking at it, fingers flying over a keyboard like a concert pianist’s.

“How are you paying for this, sir?”

Sir?
And I thought I was cast to play “boy” for the next fifteen years.

“Oh—”

Out the corner of my eye, Rent-A-Cops move, hands on holsters. Death is armed and moves in sync. Death is careful, watching my every move.

I kneel, lift the camouflage pants and unzip the kicks’ velcro side pouch. Birthday money. It arrived that day, right before I was “sent away.”

I found the plain white envelope, no return address, stuck between catalogues. The crisp bill was stuck inside. She knew; somehow my mother
knew
: Her son would need that money. Coz someday, he would need to escape, run for his life. Same as her. Daddy Saddam has that effect on people.

I slip out the hundred. Deliberate, I place the bill on the tray. Green against silver. There. Now, please hand over my ticket.

Right now, I
really
feel Death’s stare-glare. But Officer Dick-Head’s so dumb I can hear its thought: “Runaway.” Rent-A-Cop Number Two leans down. His mastodon-sized head nudges my chest like a pushy Labrador.

“Lemme see that.”

Not a question (“May I see that?”), but a demand.

Focus.

Randy ignores the request. Still, I know I’m three seconds from being caught. In Serenity Ridge, I guarded that money with my life. I never took off my kicks. One kid tried to steal them. I kicked him in the groin and crushed his left testicle. That landed me in solitary for three weeks. I wonder how long this little trip will net: life?

“My mother gave me that hundred for my birthday!” I want to shout. “Really, I’m not a prostitute!” But the Rent-A-Cops haven’t asked me any questions. I keep my mouth shut. People only know what you tell them.