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scene yesterday, you mentioned two other guys working the street.”
    “Correct.”
    “You said one had a shaved head and wore a dog collar.”
    “Correct again.”
    Myron moved the phone so that the camera was pointing at the young leather-clad man near the pond.
    “Well?”
    “That is he,” Win said.
    Myron put the phone back in his pocket and crossed the path. Dog Collar had his hands jammed into his pants pockets as though he was searching for something that had pissed him off. His shoulders were hunched. He had a tattoo on his neck—Myron couldn’t tell what it was—and he was pulling on his cigarette as though he meant to finish it with one inhale.
    “Hey,” Myron said, wanting to get his attention, but also afraid that anything too loud might startle the . . . boy? Man? Guy? Kid?
    Dog Collar spun toward Myron, trying his best to look tough. There is a certain cringe behind false bravado. Myron saw that here. It usually derives from a person who, one, has been beaten too many times, hence the cringe, and, two, has discovered the hard way that showing weakness makes the beatings even worse, hence the false bravado. The damage—and there was a lot of it here—came off the boy in waves.
    “Gotta light?” he asked.
    Myron was going to answer that he didn’t smoke or carry a lighter, but maybe asking for a light was some sort of code, so he stepped closer.
    “Can we talk for a second?” Myron asked.
    Dog Collar’s eyes darted like a bird moving from branch to branch. “I know a place.”
    Myron didn’t reply. He wondered about the boy’s life, aboutwhere it had started, about the path it had traveled, about when it started to go wrong. Was this a slow descent, a childhood steeped in abuse maybe, something like that? Was this boy a runaway? Did he have a mother or father? Was he beaten or bored or on drugs? Had the downward spiral been gradual, or had hitting bottom been more sudden—a snap, a scream, one hard, clean blow?
    “Well?” the kid said.
    Myron took in this skinny kid with his pale, reed-thin arms, a nose that had been busted more than once, the piercings in his ears, the guyliner, that damn dog collar, and he thought about Patrick and Rhys, two boys who had grown up in the lap of luxury and been snatched away.
    Did they now look like this boy?
    “Yeah,” Myron said, trying not to sound too deflated, “I’m ready.”
    “Follow me.”
    Dog Collar headed up the ridge toward the path between the two ponds. Myron wasn’t sure if he should keep up and walk side by side with the boy—Myron was guessing his age to be between eighteen and twenty, and that was young enough to still be called a boy—or if he should stay behind him. Dog Collar kept hurrying ahead, so Myron settled for walking behind him.
    There had been no request for money yet. That troubled Myron a bit. He kept an eye on his surroundings. They were heading farther up, toward the thicker bushes. There were fewer men around now. Myron turned his attention to Dog Collar. When they walked past a guy wearing camouflage pants, Myron saw a small, almost indiscernible nod pass between the two men.
    Uh-oh.
    Myron wanted to give Win a little bit of a warning.
    “Who’s that?” Myron asked.
    “Huh?”
    “That guy you just nodded at. The guy with the camouflage pants.”
    “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he added, “You’re an American.”
    “Yes.”
    The kid circled behind a bush. They were completely out of sight now. Myron spotted a used condom on the ground.
    “So what are you into?” the kid asked.
    “Conversation.”
    “What?”
    Myron was a big guy, six four, a former collegiate basketball star. He had weighed 215 in his playing days. He was up ten pounds since then. He positioned his body so that Dog Collar couldn’t just run off. Myron didn’t know if he would use force to stop him, but he didn’t want to make it easy either.
    “You were there yesterday,” Myron said.
    “Huh?”
    “When