Six—no, seven of them. They looked pretty mean to me, although that could just have been because of the history. I could tell the second the gang saw me: the excitement went through their bodies, jolting each one. Here comes some fun, they thought. I took the box out of my bag and held it out in front of me as I approached them. I was trying to look purposeful, but not dangerous. Ha! That was funny. As if I could ever be a danger to them. But I wanted at least to look like I was there for a reason, and not just like some aimless kid, ripe for robbing of his pocket money. The gang had stopped talking among themselves, and now watched me, their stares openly hostile. I was frightened. I tried to think of my dad, tried to think what he’d have done. But thinking about my dad never really helped me. Somehow thinking of his strength always made me feel weaker. Imagining his courage made me want to hide. About ten meters away from them I stopped and shouted out: “I’ve got something for Goddo.”
What do You think about The Knife That Killed Me (2008)?
