Mucus and blood poured from his nose and dripped onto Henry’s hand, but the smaller boy seemed not to notice. Billy, beaten and exhausted, slumped awkwardly on the ground, legs splayed and head twisted upward. He had stopped crying and now whimpered in steady intervals. Henry crouched behind him with his pale and thin left arm wrapped around Billy’s neck just above the scissor points. The playground smelled of wet wood chips and rubber tires. Behind them, faces peered out of the elementary school windows, students staring in wide-eyed fascination at the tense scene outside. Some had begun to cry. “Henry?” Dr. Heath, the school principal, inched forward, her manicured hands extended in an unthreatening manner. “Henry? Listen to me. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Let go of Billy.” “Please, honey,” Miss Richards, Henry’s third grade teacher, pleaded. “You don’t want to hurt anyone. You’re a good boy.”
