Mott glances longingly to the back. “Sounds like I got to give up my seat.” He looks around at us. “What the hell, no reason I can’t come up here and see if I can pick up some social skills.”

“If you can pick up social skills from us,” Tay-Roy says, “you are in serious deprivation.”

“He double flagged the student body,” Simet says. “He’s plenty deprived.”

A hint of a smile crosses Andy’s face in the green glow of the dash lights. I’ve never seen him smile before.

We hang the blankets and settle in. Coach says he and Icko will take care of the flares and the heat, that we can relax and get some sleep. “We’re the only ones getting paid,” he says. “And when this makes the papers, we’ll be taking the credit for saving your lives.”

“It’ll be on page twelve,” Simon says, “when they find out who you saved.”

We sit with our backs to the windows, legs on the seats, struggling to get comfortable, and little by little the bus settles into silence. Icko starts the engine a couple of times while Simet hustles up to replace the flares. In the silence Mott says, “What if this is it for you guys?”

I say, “What do you mean?”

“What if I’m the only one to make it out? What if snow fills up this ditch and covers the bus, and I’m the only one smart enough not to be buried alive? Who do you want me to kill when I get back?”

“Find the guy operating that snowplow,” Icko says. “He didn’t even look back to see what happened to us.”

“He must have figured we squeezed by,” Simet says. “Those guys are pretty good about helping folks out when there’s trouble.”

“Well, we’re in trouble, and he ain’t helpin’,” Icko says. “If I got to freeze to death, and the boy’s got a killin’ heart, that guy’s got my vote for now.”

I check to see if this conversation is freaking Chris out, but he’s fast asleep.

“How ’bout you, Coach?” Mott says. “What if you had a freebie?”

“Can I just have them maimed?” Coach asks. “Do I have to go for the whole package? I have this brother-in-law…”

“Nope,” Mott says. “Got to be terminated.”

“Have to take a rain check then,” Simet says. “Somebody’s got to support my sister.”

Mott says, “DeLong?”

Without hesitation, Simon says, “My mom.”

A brief moment of dead silence. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“Nope.”

Jesus.

“How ’bout you, O silent one?” he says to Jackie.

Jackie shrugs.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to use your mouth to talk?” Mott says. “Your shoulders are for your arms to hang off. You got to speak up, Jackie boy. Otherwise how do I know who to waste?”

Jackie shrugs again.

“We’ll come back to you,” Mott says. “Be thinking. Muscle man, what about you?”

“Nobody pops to mind,” Tay-Roy says. “Maybe I’ll give you my proxy. I have a feeling you have a long list.”

“That I do, Popeye. That I do. Jones?”

“I’m into saving lives,” I tell him. “So I’ll have you waste yourself. First. That way I save all these others.”

“Half-black guy around these parts?” Mott says. “Shit, you should have a list that stretches to Seattle. Think you’d rather be a one-legged white boy, or a black guy with everything in working order?” He nods toward Simon. “Or a fat guy.” Toward Chris, “Or a dummy.” And Jackie, “And…whatever that is.”

Simet says, “That’s enough.”

“Isn’t that why you want us around?” Mott says, ignoring him. “Give you a little edge on superiority?”

I say, “Mott, I didn’t ask you to swim.”

“Naw, you didn’t. I’m here of my own volition.” He looks at Dan. “Volition, you like that word, Hole?” He turns back to me. “I’m just checkin’ out the nature of things. You know, how things are.”

“Yeah, well, while you’re checking them out, be careful what words you use.” The heat is rising in me, adrenaline spilling over.

“So now you’re the savior, too. Make sure nobody says anything bad about your team.”

All of a sudden I have him by the collar, pulling him toward close. “No, you don’t say anything bad about our team.”

Simet’s hand clamps on my wrist. “Let go, T. J.”

Mott’s and my eyes remain locked on each other. His stare is cold.

Simet says, “T. J.” again, and I release my hold.

Simet says, “You check on ‘the nature of things’ on your own time, okay, Andy?”

Mott says, “Whatever.”

Mott puts the headphones back on his head, settles into his seat. I stare out the window into the falling snow, wondering how I let him get to me. Maybe it’s because he’s partly right. I did go looking for guys who were out there a ways. Up until now, I thought it was pretty clever. Maybe I’m being an arrogant asshole. I consider that as the bus settles again into silence.

“Hey, man, don’t worry about it.” Mott’s voice startles me. “Sometimes I just have to be a prick. Counselor says I have a personality disorder.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe you were right.”

“Naw,” he says. “I’m just good at making people think that.”

“I don’t know. The letter jacket thing-I’ve let myself get a little obsessed. I picked that, you guys didn’t.”

He dismisses that, is quiet a few seconds. Then, “Third guy after my dad left. On the off chance you make it out and I don’t, he’s the one I want offed. Canada Smith is his name. I got a trust fund for this leg. Get Canada Smith, and it’s yours.” He’s quiet another few seconds. “Got to do it slow, though.” Another moment of quiet. “Ol’ Canada couldn’t figure out which bed he was supposed to sleep in.”

I’m speechless.

“I’d tell you the rest of that story, but we don’t know each other that well.” He laughs. “Maybe after the Olympic trials.”

Snowflakes build on the windows. Other than Coach slipping out to put out a new flare, or Icko intermittently starting the engine, there is nothing more than the sound of heavy breathing.

“You might decide you’d rather be a one-legged white boy than all brown an’ shit,” Mott says, after I’ve been sure he’s asleep, “but believe me, you’d damn well rather be brown than be somebody got done by his mother’s boyfriend.”

I can’t even imagine it, can’t believe he’s telling me.

As I think it, he says, “My counselor says the only chance I have is to tell people I’m a prick; that way I might have less reason to act like one.” He settles down in the seat. “So, consider yourself told.”

Around four the interior fills again with light, and an engine idles in the near distance. Icko is out the door, scrambling up the hill before most of us can clear our eyes, and before we know it, a state snowplow driver has us standing in the snow while he hooks a chain to the front bumper and hauls the bus to the highway. He and Icko pound the fender away from the wheel far enough to make it drivable, and we are headed through the snowy night, our first meet-and our first group therapy session-behind us.