EXCERPT

Chapter One

It was a noticeably different boy's bedroom; very spare, no television, no posters on the wall, the curtains drawn against the dawning light. Alex Coughlin, fourteen, blond and slight, stood in the centre of the room, dressed in his running shorts, pulling down a T-shirt over his head.

Without looking down, Alex put his foot on his bed, and tied the laces of his new Nikes.

His dog, Sasha, a Golden Retriever, entered the room, cocked her head in puzzlement and licked her master's hand.

"Hi, girl. Is Dad awake?"

Alex reached over to the night table by his bed and, after one futile attempt, grasped his watch. Prying open the glass face, Alex traced his fingers over the watch hands: six-thirty, six thirty A and M. His father would still be soundly asleep, visions of Dunkin' Donuts in his head.

He whistled softly to his dog.

"Come on Sasha, time to wake the bear."

* * *

The streetlights still glowed on Egan Street. The small shops, windows dark, their doors locked, awaited the start of the day. On the corner of Egan and Shear a wiry muscled boy with black-shoulder-length hair, dressed in tattered jeans and a tight white shirt, shook his legs, limbering up the big muscles in his thighs, getting the blood to flow.

Brad Coleman, starting to get a familiar bad feeling, ran a slightly trembling hand, lit cigarette resting between yellowed fingers, through his hair.

A block down from Brad on the other side of the street, an elderly Store owner, battered felt hat on his head, a small leather briefcase under his arm, approached the entrance to his convenience store. He shifted the briefcase between elbow and body as he juggled a large ring of keys in his hands.

Brad, his start explosive, began to run, throwing his cigarette down as he picked up speed. He hit the curb in full stride, charging across the street toward the convenience store.

The store owner turned in surprise as Brad's quick hands snatched the briefcase away.

"Hey, What are you...?"

Alex ran smoothly along the gravel park path, his stride even and sure, his breathing controlled. Alex's father, Geoff, was not faring so well. Cruel nature, not satisfied at making him balding and paunchy at thirty-eight, had also conspired to rob him of his wind. Geoff could only imagine the dreadful, pre-heart attack crimson his tortured sweat-covered face had taken on.

Geoff looked over at his son, face set, hand tightly grasping Dad's elbow, beside him. That sight was enough for Geoff to push aside thoughts of quitting (keeling over on to the grass and begging for '911' actually) and to keep trudging on gamely. For Alex. Dignity be damned.

Then Alex, bored with the geriatric pace, began to run faster, pulling ahead of Geoff.

"Easy, Bubba, easy," Geoff gasped. "Slow down."

"I want to go faster."

"We're running off the path here."

Geoff heaved over to his left, pulling them back on to the path.

"What's up ahead?"

A heart attack or stroke came immediately to mind but Geoff said instead, "We're on a slight decline (Thank God). The trees are real close so--"

Geoff coughed and wiped sweat from his forehead with his free hand. He winced and clutched his side. He had to stop soon.

"I want to go faster." Alex's lips set in determination. "I have to run on the grass." The boy tried to veer off the path.

"I have to stop.