Mom warned me not to. Multiple times.
“He’s a retired federal judge and he’s nuts,” she’d say. “Go around.”
But it started to rain. Hard. And it wasn’t that big a deal. I was only cutting through his backyard. He’d never even know.
He knew. I was halfway across when he appeared in a black rain slicker with a bat in hand.
I sped up, my oversized backpack bobbing behind until my threadbare sneakers gave way. I ended up on my back in a shallow puddle of mud.
He closed in, the bat raised high.
I covered my face.
Terrified.
The Weekday One Hundred 