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of his shirt and tossed him to the ground. We could hear the muffled thud as his body slammed against the earth.
    I couldn’t believe it. Why would a Brown Shirt treat an LT that way? Then the soldier jumped up into the truck and began kicking the boys, yelling at them. Each time a boy tumbled to the ground, the soldiers laughed. I wondered why the LTs didn’t fight back—until I saw their bound wrists.
    Cat fished a pair of binoculars out of his pack and handed them to me. I adjusted the focus . . . and nearly lost my breath.
    I recognized the LTs. They were a year older than me and had gone through the Rite the month before. One I knew very well: Cannon. The athlete we all wanted to be. And here he was, wrists lashed together, pleading with the soldiers. One of them sent a boot into his ribs. We heard the crack from a quarter mile away.
    â€œI don’t understand,” I mouthed.
    â€œJust watch,” Cat said.
    Once all six LTs were on the ground, the pickup driver whipped out a large knife and cut the ties that bound Cannon’s wrists. Cannon rubbed his wrists gratefully.
    The soldiers got back in the pickup and drove off.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Flush asked. “Is it like a test? Do they have so much time to get back to camp or something?”
    Cat barely acknowledged us.
    When Cannon untied the other LTs’ ropes, they scrambled to their feet and began to run. In the quiet of the early evening I could nearly hear the whisper of their legs parting grass . . .
    . . . soon drowned out by the whine of motors. From the same bend where the truck had exited, four ATVs appeared. I’d seen four-wheelers around camp, but these were different. These had been outfitted with metal plates so they resembled some unearthly cross between military machine and triceratops. While the man in the lead wore an orange vest, the others were clad entirely in camo, dressed like it was hunting season.
    Which, in a sense, it was.
    Slung on their arms were black assault rifles. But somehow different from the M16s the Brown Shirts sported back at camp. Cat read my thoughts.
    â€œM4s,” he explained, “can do everything an M16 can, but with shorter barrels and stocks.”
    The Man in Orange stopped, shut his engine down to an idle, and waved a Be my guest gesture. One of the other three took off, exhaust trailing from his ATV. He stopped when he was within a hundred yards of the LTs, whipped up his rifle, and fired. A tendril of smoke plumed from the barrel.
    One of the boys stumbled forward, arms flailing. I squeezed the binoculars until my knuckles shone white. But something was missing.
    â€œNo blood,” I said, confused.
    â€œRubber bullets,” Cat explained. “Not meant to kill. Not at first, anyway.”
    It was a game: four men with assault rifles versus six LTs with none. Predators vs. prey.
    With Cannon supporting his injured friend, the LTs continued running. When they’d covered a good quarter mile, the three men revved their engines and took off. They weren’t letting the LTs go; they were merely giving them a head start. For sport.
    Far behind them sat the Man in Orange, arms crossed, observing from a distance. He was their guide. The hunt master.
    The men steered the ATVs to the outer rim and corralled the six LTs, shooting wildly. Another boy went sprawling, clutching his face. When he pulled his hands away I saw a slick coating of blood dribbling down his cheek. A bullet got him in the eye.
    The ATV whizzed away in search of moving targets. More challenging game.
    One Less Than jumped into a stream. He lost his balance and fell face-first into the water with a splash. A four-wheeler followed, coming to a stop directly on top of him. The LT’s arms flailed as he struggled for air, his head below water. The driver laughed.
    Two more were brought down in quick succession. Pop! Pop! They lay motionless on the ground.
    One of the remaining