and retreated as he struggled into his coat, then let himself out and jogged down the stairs. The morning sun hit him on the street, and even when he closed his eyes, he could feel its energy pushing through the red screen of his lids. The air was crisp and the noises of the city sang softly to him. His heart banged in his chest because he knewâwithout a doubtâthat today would be a day heâd never forget.
When Ryder came up out of the subway, the wind hit him full force and pushed the tangy smell of the Harlem River up his nose. It was a smell he knew.
Heâd been at Yankee Stadium before, having begged his mom every year since he was seven years old to take him to a game for his birthday. Theyâd arrive by subway and go right into the stadium, sitting in the upper deck along the outfield, the cheap seats. Sheâd always been a little stiff about it. He had assumed that was because she wasnât a huge baseball fan, but now wondered if it was painful for her because of the connection with his father. He supposed seeing the star players and knowing their salaries would be a tough reminder of just how much she struggled to make ends meet.
He asked an old guy on the sidewalk if he knew where the parking garage was, and the man directed him up the street next to the stadium.
âYou gotta go across the street for the parking garage, though.â The skin under the old manâs chin flapped when he spoke, and he acted like he was chewing on something bitter.
Ryder thanked the man, waited for the light, and crossed the street in a hurry. When he reached the parking garage, he didnât see a way for buses to get in and he didnât see anyone to ask about a loading dock. He hustled up a side street farther than he intended to, then scolded himself for being a chicken. The neighborhood was tougher than his own, and he was nervous. But it shouldnât matter. Wasnât his momâs life on the line? This was a quest, his quest. He was like those kids he read about in books about knights and dragons, the quiet kid who kept to himself, but when called upon could commit acts of amazing heroism.
He stood a little straighter, gritted his teeth, and pressed on up the street, hoping to see someone who could tell him if this was the right parking garage, and thatâs when he noticed two older kids coming directly toward him. One had orange hair cut so close he looked nearly bald and a pale freckled face, flat as a frying pan. The other was shorter and more muscular, with jet-black hair and the small squinty eyes of an attack dog. Ryderâs stomach dropped. Something about these two boys was menacing. He looked around for a sign of anyone elseânot even a cop, but just another adult.
The only people he saw were two more older kids coming up behind him, one short and fat, like a little Buddha statue, and the other with a nasty growth of fuzz on his face that looked more like mold than hair. Both wore hooded sweatshirts pulled up over their heads so part of each oneâs face washidden in shadows. Panic gripped Ryderâs throat and his hair stood on end. He crossed the street, hopeful he was just being a scaredy-cat, but the older kids crossed too and he could see the spaces in their crooked, grinning teeth.
Ryder stopped and they did too, four of them now, surrounding him.
âHey, kid. You ainât from around here.â Orange seemed to be their leader.
âNo.â Ryder could barely speak, and still, a small light of hope shone in the corner of his mind. Maybe they were just teasing.
One of the boys behind him spoke in a slow, guttural voice. âWhat you got in your pockets? Money for popcorn and peanuts? Maybe a Yankees pennant?â
âMaybe he donât know heâs on a toll road?â Orange cocked his head and looked at the attack dog, both of them smirking.
âOh, yeah.â Attack Dog snapped his fingers. âBut he wonât try to get
When Ryder came up out of the subway, the wind hit him full force and pushed the tangy smell of the Harlem River up his nose. It was a smell he knew.
Heâd been at Yankee Stadium before, having begged his mom every year since he was seven years old to take him to a game for his birthday. Theyâd arrive by subway and go right into the stadium, sitting in the upper deck along the outfield, the cheap seats. Sheâd always been a little stiff about it. He had assumed that was because she wasnât a huge baseball fan, but now wondered if it was painful for her because of the connection with his father. He supposed seeing the star players and knowing their salaries would be a tough reminder of just how much she struggled to make ends meet.
He asked an old guy on the sidewalk if he knew where the parking garage was, and the man directed him up the street next to the stadium.
âYou gotta go across the street for the parking garage, though.â The skin under the old manâs chin flapped when he spoke, and he acted like he was chewing on something bitter.
Ryder thanked the man, waited for the light, and crossed the street in a hurry. When he reached the parking garage, he didnât see a way for buses to get in and he didnât see anyone to ask about a loading dock. He hustled up a side street farther than he intended to, then scolded himself for being a chicken. The neighborhood was tougher than his own, and he was nervous. But it shouldnât matter. Wasnât his momâs life on the line? This was a quest, his quest. He was like those kids he read about in books about knights and dragons, the quiet kid who kept to himself, but when called upon could commit acts of amazing heroism.
He stood a little straighter, gritted his teeth, and pressed on up the street, hoping to see someone who could tell him if this was the right parking garage, and thatâs when he noticed two older kids coming directly toward him. One had orange hair cut so close he looked nearly bald and a pale freckled face, flat as a frying pan. The other was shorter and more muscular, with jet-black hair and the small squinty eyes of an attack dog. Ryderâs stomach dropped. Something about these two boys was menacing. He looked around for a sign of anyone elseânot even a cop, but just another adult.
The only people he saw were two more older kids coming up behind him, one short and fat, like a little Buddha statue, and the other with a nasty growth of fuzz on his face that looked more like mold than hair. Both wore hooded sweatshirts pulled up over their heads so part of each oneâs face washidden in shadows. Panic gripped Ryderâs throat and his hair stood on end. He crossed the street, hopeful he was just being a scaredy-cat, but the older kids crossed too and he could see the spaces in their crooked, grinning teeth.
Ryder stopped and they did too, four of them now, surrounding him.
âHey, kid. You ainât from around here.â Orange seemed to be their leader.
âNo.â Ryder could barely speak, and still, a small light of hope shone in the corner of his mind. Maybe they were just teasing.
One of the boys behind him spoke in a slow, guttural voice. âWhat you got in your pockets? Money for popcorn and peanuts? Maybe a Yankees pennant?â
âMaybe he donât know heâs on a toll road?â Orange cocked his head and looked at the attack dog, both of them smirking.
âOh, yeah.â Attack Dog snapped his fingers. âBut he wonât try to get
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