Running the Risk Read Free Page B

more damage than an angry neighbor and a lot of work repairing the ultralight.
    It was the third crash that did him in. Turned out the immortal Hank could die after all, although it must have come as quite a shock to his system. People who watched him crash said that if he had just been able to keep his machine up for another fifty feet, he would have been past the trees. But it was the trees that got him. Big tall ones—white pine and maple and spruce. They had his number.
    I sat there alone on the bench, the taste of Jeanette still in my mouth, and I wondered where the spirit of my grandfather was just then. And I realized how much I still missed him.
    On my way home, I had to cross a four-lane highway. There was a lot of Sunday-afternoon traffic and there was no place for a pedestrian to cross. In fact, I stood by the side of the road waiting for a break, thinking maybe someone would see me and cars would let me cross.But it wasn’t like that. Everyone was on their way somewhere. And in a damn hurry.
    I don’t know why, but that made me angry.
    So I focused on the far side of the road— where I wanted to be—and I just started walking. Straight across. I didn’t even look to the side. I just kept walking.
    I heard the car horns and I heard some tires screeching and I still didn’t look. And then I heard some angry voices. A man and a couple of women yelling something at me.
    But no one actually stopped.
    I arrived at the other side of the road, and after those honking, cursing drivers had passed, it was as if nothing had happened. The stream of traffic just kept going. I stopped being angry and I laughed out loud.

Chapter Six
    When I read the report in the newspaper about the robbery, it seemed like something completely different from what I had experienced. No one’s name was reported except for the owner’s, Ernesto Millard. He was quoted as saying, “No one was hurt, and we assume that there was really no gun, just someone with something that looked like a gun.”
    Well, Ernesto Millard was not even there. And yes, it was a gun. Not somethingthat “looked like a gun.” There was even a bullet hole in the ceiling if anyone wanted to see proof. But Ernesto wanted to make people feel safe about going back to Burger Heaven. He knew something like this might hurt business. He had even phoned my house and talked to my father, suggesting that my dad urge me not to talk too much about what happened.
    At school on Monday, I looked at the faces of my classmates. I noticed some of them looking at me kind of funny. At first I thought maybe it was all in my head, but then I saw Cam hanging out with a couple of his friends, Nick and Deacon. I could imagine Cam had told them his version of the events.
    I ran into Deacon later that day in the washroom. We were standing beside each other at the urinals. “You must have been scared pretty bad to just hand over all the cash,” he said. He was smiling as he said it.
    So that had been Cam’s story—his version of what happened. I was trying to come up with something to say to set the record straight. I understood immediately that ifDeacon thought that’s what happened, pretty soon that would be what most of the kids in school would think. But I figured that whatever I said to him right there wouldn’t make much difference. So I turned slightly and pissed on Deacon’s shoes. Maybe I got a little on his pant leg.
    â€œOh, sorry, man,” I said. “Guess I have bad aim.”
    Deacon was shell-shocked. He said nothing. I zipped up and left.
    It took me a little time to get settled after that. If anyone asked Lacey or Jeanette, they would get the real story, but as I headed to English class, I was beginning to realize something. The newspaper story. Cam’s version. The official police version of the event. There were so many different ways to view things. What did it matter what people believed had