For Matt, who gave me the Lantern Bearers, and many other things
Mountain grog seller and river gambler, Generous Sport and border jackal, blackleg braggart and coonskin roisterer, Long Knives from Kentucky and hatchet-men from New York, bondsmen, brokers, and bounty jumpers – right from the go it was a broker's town, and the brokers run it yet. – Nelson Algren
August 11, 1992
His heart pumps fire.
Jason's feet are impossibly heavy, and his world is blurring. Shin muscles stretch to snapping, rubber bands wound too tight. When they began racing, the breeze was like cool water he could melt into. But it has been an hour at least, and now the air is something to fight through, humid and thick.
Arms pumping, Jason risks a sideways glance at his older brother.
Michael catches it. His features are crinkled in effort, and sweat soaks the thin dark hairs pointing scraggly on his upper lip. His shirt is stained a dark V. But he manages to cock one corner of his mouth up at an ugly angle. "Give up yet?" he asks. His voice the same as the upperclassmen in gym, the ones who snap locker room towels, who laugh at Jason's hairless body, call him faggot.
Jason leans into the run, speeding up. Feet tingling. Mouth open. Gasping.
