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up to Janosch, we’d be on the girls’ corridor every night. Because he loves having fun. Gets a kick out of it. Besides which he hopes one of these times he’ll finally get to see Malen’s tits. Supposedly she promised him, one night, when he went up there on his own. Fat Felix says it’s all bullshit— nobody promised him that. He can’t see reality anymore because he’s got tits on the brain. You have to work for tits, says Felix, they don’t just fall into your hands. Certainly not when you’re a small boy with bleached hair, a moon face, and jowly cheeks. Impossible. Nonetheless, Janosch is the ringleader. And a big one. He’ll keep the pack together. Kick everyone in the ass if necessary, says Felix. He’s really good at that; he can do it. Beside him, crowded to one side, comes the last person in the group: me. I carefully keep putting one foot in front of the other. I scratch a fingernail along the wall. It’s quite dark. I’m a little afraid. I’ve never done anything like this before—nocturnal activities and stuff like that aren’t my thing. I’d rather be asleep. Janosch says I’m a lard ass. I can sleep all I want when I’m dead. Besides, I’ll see Malen. And if I see Malen, I’ll forget about sleep. He’s probably right. I can visualize her friendly smile. Her hair. Her eyes. Will she be pleased I’m coming? Quite possibly she just wants to sleep. I wouldn’t blame her. I find myself thinking about my own bed. And my parents. Asleep right now. My mother’s bound to be dreaming about me—I’m sure of that. She always does when I’m away. She’s probably wondering if I’m freezing or something. And she’s certainly asking herself if I packed the bedspread, the brown one with white stripes. Probably also if I’ve shut the window, because if not I could catch cold. That’s how my mother is. Always worrying about me. Probably why I’m such a wimp. With a normal kid it would be okay—he could balance things out. With friends. With books. With fooling around. But when you’re disabled, it’s hard. You tend to hide under your mother’s skirts. Just resting. Breathing. Sleeping.
    Yes, I’d say I’m a real mama’s boy. Helpless. All I’ve got is my sister, who periodically drags me out into the night. And I’ve got Janosch, who says I shouldn’t shit in my pants. I need them both if I’m going to stand on my own two feet. My mother too. Whom I love. Sounds dumb. But that’s what they call growing up. So they say, anyway.
    I keep putting one foot in front of the other. The other five are faster than me, quick and supple. I can’t keep up. I go slowly, dragging along behind. My left foot is good at dragging. I can’t lift it properly. Not strong enough. I’m barefoot, but the dragging still makes a racket. It echoes right along Tarts’ Alley. Janosch turns around, mad. He frowns, then recognizes the problem, and comes back to me.
    “I’ll carry you on my back,” he says apologetically. “Too much noise.”
    “Too much noise?”
    “Yes, Landorf ’ll hear us. I’ll carry you. You’re slower than us anyway.”
    Everyone agrees, even Fat Felix.
    “Will you carry me, too?” He turns to Janosch.
    “You mean, to try out a new form of torture?”
    “No. To carry me,” says Felix.
    “First thing you need to check is whether you’re still carrying your pants properly,” whispers Janosch.
    He points at the clothespin on Felix’s pajama bottoms, then he turns around and gets down on his knees. I’m standing behind him now. I look down at myself and grin. I’m wearing my father’s pitch-black pajamas, which must be at least twenty years old. What it says on them is WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING—an ancient piece of wisdom from rock ’n’ roll. My father loves it, has for centuries. Probably no accident. My skin’s a little damp, I’m shaking, and there’s a foul taste in my mouth. There was lentil stew for lunch. Or maybe it’s this