Obediently, Joe turned and slapped his palms on the wall. The cop kicked his legs back, forcing him to spread them apart. Then, he frisked Joe, running his hands up and down his body, patting his pockets and pantslegs for signs of a weapon. "All right, buddy," he said at last, ending his search. "Relax." Stepping away from the wall, Joe turned to face the cop. "What's goin' on?" he asked, pointing to the ambulance and police cruisers. "Don't play games," barked the cop, his face stony. "You probably did it." "Did what?" flustered Joe, confused. "Your friend," said the cop. "What?" "Your friend, boy. The fat one from the fire." "Crank?" said Joe. "What the hell?" Joe felt funny, drowsy; everything was slow, watery, unreal--the cold air, the bleating siren, the swooping lights. It felt like a dream, like if he opened his eyes again, he would wake up back in the alley and nothing would have changed from before.
