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what he'd done. Manetti, his once-proud shoulders slumped as he gimped along with the old folks, had a cane, and there was a pretty girl, his girlfriend probably, loping along with him, alternately trying to encourage him to pick up the pace or slow it down. Watching them--the look of pained resignation on his face, and the look of total loyalty and sympathy on hers--Adam thought that it was one of the saddest things he'd ever seen. He knew as soon as he'd made the hit that Manetti would never walk right again. He damn sure would never play again.
    A week later Adam had signed up for lessons at Master Griffin's dojo. He had read a little about karate and thought it would help him with control. He also hoped it would help him with his guilt.
    "You aren't still mad at me, are you, man?" Pete said, slapping
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    Adam on the shoulder pads and snapping him out of his reverie.
    "I'm not mad at you, Pete," he said, although he wanted to hit back. He wanted to blame Pete for his part in making him the ass he'd been for the past two years, but really he just wanted to punch himself.
    "You saw it. Coach wants us to take out the dead kid," Martinsburg said. The lines were beginning the drill.
    Adam looked back at him.
    Pete gripped his shoulder. "Time to pick a team, Adam."
    Adam shook off Pete's hand and held his ground without replying. Stavis and Pete weren't shy about using their fists-- neither was Adam, for that matter--but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hoped Pete would allow Adam to outgrow him gracefully.
    Right, he thought. That's how it will happen.
    "You take first crack, Lame Man," Martinsburg said. "Case of beer to whoever puts him out."
    First crack, Adam thought. There were a lot of things that living impaired people couldn't do--normal things like breathe and bleed.
    He didn't think they could heal either.
    The hollow resonant sound of Phoebe's heels on the metal bleachers echoed in the cool air of dusk, drawing looks her way from the few spectators sitting in small clusters and watching the action on the field below. Most of the watchers were parents, girlfriends, or kids from the marching band waiting for rides. Phoebe was used to getting stared at. Her all-black
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    wardrobe, an even mix of vintage and trendy clothing, practically guaranteed she would get odd looks from her classmates. Knee boots with heels, long black skirts, dyed hair, and a flowing shawl ensured a raised eyebrow here and there. She didn't mind. She found that her look repelled people she didn't want to talk to and attracted those she did. The goth look wasn't nearly as popular as it once was, probably due to the appearance of the living impaired, but to Phoebe that just gave the style a subtle hint of irony, a private joke to be shared by a special few.
    She stood for a moment, scanning the low ridge that rose up behind the bleachers. Koster Field, so named for a scholar athlete who had set track and field records for the state back in the early eighties, was surrounded on three sides by the Oxoboxo woods. A short perimeter of grass ran about twenty feet from the waist-high chain-link fence to the edges of the forest, making the tree shade that reached into the field late in the day appear to be a wall of spectators.
    Phoebe sat down by herself. The bench was cold beneath the thin material of her skirt. She took her iPod out of her backpack and slipped the padded earphones over her ears. She also took a thick rectangular notebook and a silver pen out of her bag and set them on the bench next to her.
    At least my ears will be warm, she thought, punching up the new album by the Creeps and drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders. There were a few girls wearing letter jackets over their cheerleader outfits at the end of her bench, whispering and pointing at the field. Phoebe could fit all
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    of what she knew about football onto the first four lines of her notebook. The only thing she could make out from the action on the field was that