The Book of Joe

as they curl up into fetal positions, arms wrapped protectively around their heads. “Let’s move!”
    someone says, and we all begin backing toward the stairwell, maintaining a steady barrage of intermittent fire to keep the guards on the floor until we’ve made it. We fly down the stairs, shouting and whooping with savage glee, and I recognize one of the voices in the mix as my own. In a few moments we burst out of the stairwell and charge through the loading bay and out of the building, into the darkness of the Porter’s grounds. The cold air is invigorating against my hot, sweating face, and I feel practically euphoric as we enter the welcome cover of the woods.
    If you think climbing an eight-foot chain-link fence at full speed while wearing a three-pound air rifle and carrying five pounds’ worth of gear in a knapsack is easy, you’re mistaken.
    Or you’re seventeen. I launch myself thoughtlessly at the fence, confident that I will fly over it in the slipstream of my fleeing compatriots, who have already effortlessly scaled it. I make it up and over the top with no problem, but on the way down the strap from my rifle gets snagged on one of the fence posts, and I’m slammed back into the fence, the strap flying off my shoulder and hanging me by my neck. I dangle there for a precarious instant, humiliated and dangerously close to death by hanging. It isn’t my life that flashes before my eyes at this point, so determined am I even now to avoid clichés at all costs, but rather a clairvoyant glimpse of the bemused half grins and rolled eyes of family and associates as they read the news accounts of my ridiculous demise. It’s then that Jared and Mikey finally notice my distress and jump to my rescue, hoisting me and freeing the strap from the fence post. As they pull me off, my leg becomes ensnared by a protruding clasp in the fence. There follows a loud tearing sound as my khakis rip from mid-shin to cuff, and I feel the hot slice of cold metal shredding my ankle. I’m proud that I don’t scream, although with my windpipe only recently having been freed from the crushing rifle strap, I doubt I could manage much more than a hoarse croak anyway.
    I limp gingerly over to the Mercedes, which Jared already has running, and Mikey helps me in, giving me a friendly shove in the shoulder as I fall back onto the seat. “Suck my Autococker,” he says with a sardonic grin. “That was classic, man.” He disappears into the night.
    Jared throws the Mercedes into gear and drives us down the dirt road. Just ahead of us, the furiously spinning tires of Mikey’s Jeep kick up a small pebble that hits my front windshield with the force of a bullet. There is a sharp, cracking sound and a small circular chip appears in the German glass, just under the rearview mirror, with three or four spidery tentacles ambitiously extending in disparate directions.
    “Oops,” Jared says.
    “Just drive,” I say. And as my burgling nephew steers us at high velocity into the night, my probing hand comes away sticky with blood from my wounded ankle, and through no easily discernible connection, it reminds me that I’ve forgotten to call Carly as I promised.

Twenty-Two
    I’m almost disappointed when there’s no car chase. It’s distinctly possible that the guards haven’t phoned in the incident, swearing a solemn oath of secrecy rather than choosing to explain how a band of high school kids with paintball guns overpowered them. Whatever the case, we make good our escape and are soon parked in the woods overlooking the Bush River Falls.
    I look at my nephew peering pensively at the churning waters. “Jared,” I say. “I just want to be friends.”
    He laughs. “Was this the place in your time too?”
    “My parents probably screwed around here too.”
    Jared fumbles through the many pockets of his cargo pants and, after a moment, triumphantly fishes out a slightly bent but wholly intact joint. “Join me?” he says, punching the dashboard lighter.
    “Believe it or not, that’s the second joint I’ve seen tonight.”
    “Good,” Jared says, firing it up. “Then you’re already primed.” He takes two short tokes on the spliff to get it lit right, and then one long, meaningful drag, before passing it to me as he holds his breath. I am about to refuse, but the throbbing in my injured ankle is fast becoming excruciating and I think of something Wayne said earlier.
    “Okay,” I say, taking the proffered joint. “But