John Avery: Three Days To Die

"Detention sucks," Willy said, jumping down from the top of a high stone wall. "One lousy prank and you'd think we were a couple of blaggers whipping out Uzis in a bank lobby."

Aaron laughed, picturing the two of them, with masks and machine guns, robbing a bank like a couple of eighth-grade hooligans.

"It wasn't just a prank, you know," he said. "We ditched the whole first day of school!" He felt guilty about ditching (this being his first time), but only slightly. Each year his teachers seemed less and less interested in him, and the further he and the educational system drifted apart, the more difficult it became for him to return. So this year when Willy ditched the first day (as he did every year), Aaron ditched, too.

"And don't forget the forged permission slips," Willy added proudly, clearing a long concrete bench from end to end, a surprisingly agile move, considering the extra inches he carried around his middle.

"Oh, yeah," Aaron agreed. "Those, too." Willy's fake documents hadn't worked, but it was a commendable effort.

"All in good fun," Willy said cheerfully.

They crossed the middle-school's broad central plaza under a golden canopy of autumn leaves, and exited through the main gate, their sneakers tapping out a random rhythm on the polished granite as they descended the wide front steps.

– Across the boulevard from the middle-school stood Community Plaza Bank, a stately structure with a marble colonnade echoing a classic Greek temple, and a pair of grand, plate-glass front doors. Community Plaza was the largest and busiest bank in the city, but neither Aaron nor Willy had ever been inside.

Aaron checked the huge clock mounted on its towering facade and the stabbing pain behind his eyes returned with a vengeance.

"I am so dead," he said gloomily, his throat tightening at the thought of going home and facing Tom.

Willy knew that Aaron's stepdad did not tolerate rebellious behavior, and that the man wasn't the least bit squeamish when it came to tough discipline.

"I'm starving," he said. "You want to get a burger?"

"Tom would love that," Aaron said bitterly. "Unlike you, I can't come and go as I please."

To Willy that comment felt cold, considering he had no parents at all. His mother, born and raised in England, had given birth to him at the age of fifteen while living in south London, and had never told the father. At the age of twenty, she died of alcohol poisoning, leaving Willy an orphan. His grieving grandparents took him in, and together they immigrated to the United States. Willy's father would later be awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery while serving in Iraq as a commando in the British Royal Marines, but unfortunately Willy never heard about this, because he and his father never met.

"Maybe tomorrow then, mate?" he said, but Aaron was lost in thought and didn't answer.

The tubular-steel bike rack was bolted to the sidewalk next to the street, its undulating pipes shaped to spell the word SCHOOL. Aaron had parked his old BMX bike in the letter H, next to the O that held Willy's rusty beach cruiser.

Aaron knelt and tried his lock, but it was stuck. Willy removed his own lock with ease, then stuffed it in his pack and pulled his bike out of the O.

Aaron gave his lock a swift kick. The lock banged hard against the bike frame, but didn't open.

"Stupid piece-of-crap!" he yelled, giving the lock another hard kick. This time the lock opened, and he nearly broke the rack yanking his bike out of the H.

To Willy's surprise, Aaron looped his pack over his shoulder, swung a leg over his bike, and rudely pedaled off down the street without him.

Willy watched him for a moment, uncertain whether or not to follow, then set off to eat his dinner alone.

It was completely dark as Aaron rode alone toward home. He knew he'd been cruel to his friend, leaving him like he did, and he felt awful. But he couldn't help himself. He was pissed off at the world. Taking advantage of Willy's good nature was easier than being the good friend he deserved. He looked back a couple of times, hoping to see Willy, but there was no one there.

Suddenly he heard the unmistakable click of dog paws approaching at a full sprint. A large Rottweiler sleeping in a side alley had awakened to the tantalizing grind of bicycle tires on pavement and given chase — and it was closing on him. His heart fell into his shoes, and he wished he'd taken Willy up on his burger offer.

Instinctively, Aaron accelerated, but a quick look back convinced him that it was futile, and judging by the size and look of the dog, he knew he was in serious trouble.

An article he had read online flashed into his mind: It had said that in the event of a dog attack while riding a bike, dismount and use your bike as a shield, and if it came down to pure survival, to jam your arm down the attacking dog's throat, choking it to death.

I'm not sure I could do that, he thought wretchedly.

But he had no time to consider his options — the dog was upon him. He said a quick prayer, hit the brakes, leaped off his bike, and swung it around between himself and a horrible fate.

The vicious animal lunged at him repeatedly, barking its lungs out, as if its very survival depended upon its ability to catch and eat teenage boys. Aaron fought desperately, dodging the dog's enormous head, as again and again the animal thrust snarling, snapping jaws full of huge, foaming teeth through the gaps in his bike frame.

He battled on, somehow managing to keep his bike between them, until finally — after what felt like an eternity — the dog tired and just stood in the street panting. It looked at Aaron with its head cocked, as if to say Shit, man… I didn't expect that much fight from someone your size. Then, at last, having lost interest, it trotted off into the darkness.

For a couple of minutes Aaron couldn't move. He cowered behind his bike, soaked to the skin with sweat, his hands shaking and sticky with strings of dog snot. He struggled to get a grip on himself as the terrifying event played over and over, in exquisitely painful detail, in his mind.

He looked back down the street to make sure the dog had gone, then, still trembling, rode nervously on toward home, grateful that he wasn't forced to try the arm-down-the-throat trick.

Aaron hauled his bike up the cracked concrete steps of the aging two-story red-brick townhouse and bumped his way through the door to his home.

He kicked the door closed behind him, and as he went to lean his bike against a wall he caught his reflection in the hall mirror and his heart fell — add a red waistband and neckerchief and he was one of the unlucky runners at the encierro in Pamplona.

He jumped when his mother called to him from the dining room.

" Aaron, sweetie…? Is that you? "

" Coming… " he coughed, then used his sleeve to wipe the dirt and sweat from his face. He attempted to straighten his matted hair, then sucked in a deep breath, pulled his lips back into something resembling a smile, and entered the dining room.

– The small dining table was covered with a crisp, white cloth and set for three. Aaron took his regular seat in the middle of one side, trying his best to appear normal.

Seated at the end to his right, his mother, Ashley Quinn, served him a beautifully prepared plate of food — a trick, considering she had stalled dinner for nearly an hour.

To Aaron's left, at the head of the table, sat his stepdad of four months, Thomas Davidson. During the four long years following the death of her husband, Daniel Quinn, Ashley had not re-married, or even dated, believing that no man could replace Aaron's father. Eventually, however, she met and married Tom — a decision that she and Aaron had lived to regret.