She scooted her desk up beside Little Pete’s and put a hand on his shoulder. No reaction. He knew she was there, but he showed nothing, absorbed in his game.

Still not looking at Drake, Astrid said, “Doesn’t it bother you that Diana treats you like some wild animal she keeps on a leash?”

Drake said, “Doesn’t it bother you going around with that retard? Having a little ’tard practically attached to you?”

“He’s not retarded,” Astrid said evenly.

“Oh. Is that the wrong word? ‘Retard’?”

“He’s autistic.”

“Retarded,” Drake insisted.

Astrid looked at him. She willed herself to meet his gaze. “‘Retarded’ is a word people don’t use anymore. When they did use it, they used it to signify an impairment of intelligence. Petey is not intellectually impaired in that way. He has at least normal IQ, and may have a higher than normal IQ. So the word doesn’t apply.”

“Yeah? Huh. Because I like the word ‘retard.’ In fact, I’d like to hear you say it. Retard.”

Astrid felt dread sap her strength. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that he meant to hurt her. She held his gaze for a while but then looked down.

“Retard,” Drake insisted. “Say it.”

“No,” Astrid whispered.

Drake sauntered across the room. He was not carrying a weapon. He didn’t need to. He placed his fists on her desk and leaned over her.

“Retard,” Drake said. “Say, ‘My brother is a retard.’”

Astrid didn’t trust herself to speak. She was choking back tears. She wanted to believe she was brave, but now, with the thug inches away from her, she knew that she was not.

“My. Brother. Come on, say it with me. My. Say it.”

The slap was so quick, she barely registered his hand moving. Her face burned.

“Say it. My…”

“My,” she whispered.

“Louder, I want the little retard to hear it. My brother is a retard.”

The second slap was so hard, she almost fell from the chair.

“You can say it while your face is still pretty, or you can say it after I’ve smashed it in—your choice. My brother is a retard.”

“My brother is a retard,” Astrid said, her voice shaking.

Drake laughed delightedly and crossed to Little Pete, who had looked up from his video game and seemed almost to register what was happening. Drake put his face into Little Pete’s space and with one hand yanked Astrid by the hair so that her mouth was close to Little Pete’s ear and said, “One more time, nice and loud.” He pushed Astrid’s face against the side of Little Pete’s head and yelled, “My brother is—”

And Astrid fell back on her bed.

Her bed. Her bedroom.

Little Pete was in the window seat, cross-legged on the bench, video game in his hand.

Astrid knew immediately what had happened. But it was still impossibly disorienting. One second in the school, the next in her room.

She couldn’t look at him. Her face burned from the slaps, but even more from shame.

“Thanks, Petey,” she whispered.

Orc dragged Sam from the gym into the weight room.

Howard looked around, considering what he should do.

“Howard, man, you can’t be down with this,” Sam pleaded. “You can’t be okay with Caine killing Astrid and Little Pete. Orc, even you can’t be okay with this. You didn’t mean to kill Bette. This is way over the line.”

“Yeah. It is over the line,” Howard admitted, preoccupied, his mouth twisted quizzically to one side.

“You have to help me. Let me go after Drake.”

“I don’t think so, Sammy. See, I’ve seen what kind of stuff Drake can do. And we’ve both seen what kind of stuff Caine can do.” To Orc, Howard said, “Let’s put him here on this bench. Faceup. We’ll tie his legs to the upright here.”

Orc lifted Sam and slammed him down onto the weight bench.

“Orc, this is going to be cold-blooded murder,” Sam said.

“Not me, man,” Orc said. “I’m just tying you up.”

“Drake is going to murder Astrid. She helped you get through math. You can stop this, Orc.”

“She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that,” Orc grumbled. “Anyway, no more math class.”

They used rope to lash his ankles to the legs of the bench. They tied another rope around his waist.

“Okay, now here’s the good part,” Howard said. “We load some weight on the bar. We tie Sam’s hands to the bar and lower it down on the slide, right? He’ll be busy keeping the bar up off his neck.”

Orc was slow to understand, so Howard showed him. Then Orc piled weight plates onto the bar.

“What can you bench-press, Sam?” Howard asked. “I’d say put on two forty-fives on each end, right? With the bar, that makes it two hundred pounds.”

“No way he presses two hundred,” Orc opined.

“I think you’re right, Orc. I think he’s going to be busy just keeping that bar from choking him.”

“This isn’t right, Howard,” Sam said. “You know it isn’t right. You don’t do stuff like this, either of you. You’re bullies, you’re not cold-blooded killers.”

Howard sighed. “Sammy, it’s a whole different world, haven’t you noticed? It’s the FAYZ, man.”