"I'm going downstairs to hang out, Granny. You want anything from the store?"

"No, son. Just watch out for yourself, hear?"

"Yes ma'am."

Shawn took the stairs. It was only seven flights, and the elevator scared him. You got trapped in one of the cars, there was no place to go.

He spotted Mr. Bart on the third floor landing. Mr. Bart was a monster of a man, over six and a half feet tall, more than three hundred pounds of muscle. But his mind wasn't right and he could be vicious, rip your head off with one hand, easy as pie. He could never catch anyone, though–his legs didn't work. Mr. Bart supported his huge body with a steel cage that went from his waist all the way to the ground. It had four rubber legs, like a walker. The hospital had to make it up special for him. Mr. Bart would pick it up, stick his arms straight out, slam it down, then swing his legs forward, supporting all his weight on his massive forearms. His hands were the size of telephone books…the Yellow Pages. You could hear him coming a mile away…like an elephant thumping.

"Good evening, Mr. Bart," Shawn called out.

"My money!" the giant grunted, touching a leather bag he had looped over a hook on the front of his walker.

"Sure is, Mr. Bart. Your money."

The monster smiled. Kids were always snatching his little bag, just to be doing it, show how brave they were flirting with disaster. They would grab the bag and run, stand down the corridor and empty it of its few coins, then drop the hag and run away. Mr. Bart could never catch them. He would thump over and drop himself on the floor to pick up his leather bag. Then he'd pull himself upright again, making horrible noises.

Everybody said if he ever caught one of those kids, he'd pull them apart like wet Kleenex.

Shawn hit the front steps running, spotted Rufus across the street and waved.

"What's up, home?" Rufus greeted him.

"You know."

"Yeah, you still fussin' about them shoes, wearin' 'em to school tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"You got to do it, homeboy. The ladies ain't goin' to see what you worked so hard for they be sittin' in your house, right?"

"Right."

They exchanged a high five, Shawn drawing strength from his friend.

A young man of about nineteen turned the corner, wearing a multicolored leather 8–Ball jacket, black leather sneakers on his feet displaying the distinctive red ball for Reebok Pumps. He hard–eyed the two friends, then dismissed them with a sneer, moving away in a shambling, practiced mugger's gait,

"That mope, he think he bad, doin' the strut like that?" Shawn said.

"Brother, he be bad. That is Marcus Brown, man. You see that jackets Cost you a thousand damn dollars, you buy it in a store."

"So what'd he do, rip it off someone?"

"You don't know 'bout that jacket? That jacket famous, man. Marcus, he roll up on this boy from the Jefferson Houses, throw down on him, point the piece in his face. Marcus, he don't go nowhere without his nine. Marcus say, give up the jacket. This boy, he don't play that…worked his butt off for that jacket, he ain't givin' it up. Marcus, he just squeezes one off. Right in the boy's chest. lees him right in front of everybody. You look at that jacket close, you see a hole right over the heart. Bullet hole, man. Marcus, he one cold dude. Got everybody's respect."

"He don't have mine," Shawn said, his voice laced with bitterness. Marcus wouldn't worry about wearing his fresh sneakers on the street.

That night, Shawn couldn't sleep. He got up and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Granny was there, cooking something in a big black cast iron pot she brought with her from down home.

"What troublin' you, son?"

It took a long time, but Shawn finally told her about the sneakers. Granny sat at the kitchen table, watching the love of her life struggle with more weight than he could carry.

"What do I do, Granny?"

The old woman looked around the kitchen, brought her eyes back to rest on Shawn. "Go get them shoes for me."

Shawn brought the shoebox into the kitchen. Slowly took out his prizes, laid them on the table like an offering on an altar. Granny held one in each hand, eyes closed. Words came out of her, but her mouth never moved. Then her eyes snapped open, but they looked someplace else. Some other place. Shawn didn't move. Finally, Granny focused on her child.

"Shawn, here is what be. What be the truth. The spirits can't protect things, you understand? Ain't nothing they can do, keep those special shoes on your feet. But I got a spell…an old, old spell that I never used in all my life. What it can do is make those shoes do good, you see?"

"No, Gran."

"I can't swear you keep the shoes on your feet, but, with this spell, whoever wear the shoes got to do the right thing, or…"

"So if somebody take them…?"

"Somebody take them, he have to walk right the rest of his days. Like when you run off from a chain gang…no point in running off to live bad. They just catch you for whatever bad you doin' and back you go, understand? There's crimes that have to change a man. If the man don't change, he got to answer."

"Okay, Granny."

"Don't you 'okay' me, boy. The knowledge I give you is the oldest knowledge in the world. You don't obey, you have to pay."

Shawn nodded, waiting.

"Now look here, boy. You know, I charges people for my spells, don't you? That's the rules. It don't necessarily got to be money, but it has to cost somethin'. Now what this spell costs you is this…no fighting. You hear me talkin' to you? No fighting. Somebody try to take your precious shoes, you let them go. After while, they come back to you…one way or the other."

"I promise, Gran."

Shawn gave his Granny a kiss and went to bed, too excited to really sleep.

It took him forever to dress in the morning. He tiptoed down the stairs, watching each step carefully, maintaining the perfect newness of his sneakers as long as he could.

Mr. Bart was standing on the first floor, right near the front desk, watching. Shawn waved good morning to him. The monster waved back, not saying a word.

Rufus met him on the front steps, sporting a new lime–green leather jacket, his chest out like a peacock.

"That jacket is boss stoopid, Rufe."

"Thanks, homeboy. Those your new shoes, huh? Righteous!"

The two friends walked to school together. And, for one bright shining day, the whole summer's labor seemed well worth it to Shawn. Especially when Taineesha told him how much he'd grown since last year…he was taller than her now.

As they turned the corner to the Projects, Marcus stepped out to block their path. He had two of his boys with him, but they were just there to watch. They all watched…watched the black nine–millimeter automatic in his hand.

"Give it up," is all Marcus said.

Shawn put his hand in his pocket, brought out the fifty dollars he'd taken to school to impress everyone, wishing he hadn't. Rufus handed over his dough too.

"The jacket too, punk!"

Hot tears shot into Rufus's eyes, but he slowly took off the lime–green jacket and dropped it on the ground. One of Marcus's boys picked it up.

"Those look about my size," Marcus said, pointing his gun at the ground.

Shawn felt a stabbing pain in his chest as he bent to unlace his sneakers. When he let himself look up, they were gone.

Rufus went home. Shawn walked the rest of the way through the lobby in his stocking feet. Some of the older residents looked sad for him–he wasn't the first shoeless boy to walk home past them.