The boys had taken the tags from Toby’s backpack in the school locker room last fall. At first, they demanded fifty dollars. Then they said the price had gone up. Every Saturday, they waited by the diner’s back door to collect his paycheck, promising the tags would come next week. Five months of paychecks, gone. The cash I saw him counting was what he planned to hand over next. When he refused once, they shoved him into a ditch. That was the torn sleeve.

Toby never told me because he didn’t want to add one more sad thing to my life. He thought he could handle it alone, the way he thought his father would have. Sal had noticed the boys weeks ago and had been watching. That night, when Toby saw them waiting again, he tried to give them his whole paycheck. Sal stepped outside, grabbed the older boy, and knocked over a stack of crates doing it. That was the crash.