Undeterred

Julio shot an exasperated look at Alan, who sat next to him at the breakfast table. "Alan, man, I know you're nervous..."

Alan started. "Nervous? I'm not nervous."

"Then why are you jiggling your leg up and down? It's seriously annoying."

"Oh." Alan froze, let out a short huff of air, and gave his neighbor a weak smile. "Uh, yeah. Sorry about that."

Julio grinned, and slapped Alan on the back. "No problem, Pinky. We're good."

"Finish up, guys," Xavion said. "We're running on the track today."

The track team members hastily finished their breakfasts. Alan wolfed down his remaining scrambled eggs, and drained his milk, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He rose, taking his tray with him.

"Hey, Zave!" The older boy turned as Alan called his name, and he paused so the younger boy could catch up.

"What's up, Pinky?" he asked as the two matched strides.

"What's up with running on the track?"

"Because there was a lot of frost last night, and Coach thinks the grass will be too slick. Last thing he wants today is someone to sprain something and not be able to compete." Zave's tone was sour. "He's hoping that things clear once the sun comes up so he doesn't have to change the cross-country route." He handed his tray to the older woman who stood by the massive dishwasher. Alan had noticed that Sable didn't usually work until the main breakfast shift on Saturdays. He gave the woman his tray, too, and she smiled at him.

"Good luck today, boys," she said.

"Uh, thanks," Alan replied, smiling back at her.

Zave was slower on the uptake. "Yeah, thanks."

The rest of the team was lined up behind them, waiting their turn, so Zave led the way to the dining hall lobby. Singly or in small groups, the track team members gathered around their captain, and when everyone was accounted for, Zave headed for the gym. Alan followed close behind him. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up close around his face, and dug his hands deep into the front pockets as the team went from warm cafeteria to cold, early morning air.

A navy blue and white bus bearing the name "Wharton Academy" in silver letters stood before the gym. A trailer, hitched to the rear, was loaded up with soccer equipment. As the track team approached, the final items were added, then the trailer was closed and locked. Mr. Beccara waited by the open bus door, checking off the soccer team members as they boarded. Last to board was Vítor Orta, the new soccer team captain. Zave paused to give Vítor a high-five.

"Good luck today, man."

Vítor grinned. "Good luck to you, too, Zave. Maybe we'll both win today."

"I hope so!"

Vítor climbed into the bus, followed by Mr. Beccara, who paused to give the track team a quick salute. The door swung shut; the driver put the bus in gear, and the soccer team drove off. The track team waved and shouted, wishing their fellow athletes good luck. As the bus disappeared from sight, Zave turned to his team.

"We'll warm up in the gym and start our run from there."

Alan took a deep breath and opened the gymnasium door. Maybe the morning run will get rid of my butterflies.

"Man, it's freezing." Gordon hunched deeper into his jacket. "I'd forgotten how early the cold weather sets in here."

"Think how much c-c-colder it was when Alan went for his morning r-run." Fermat glanced at the sky. "At least the sun is o-out."

"Now, remind me wh-who is competing first." Brains had his hands cupped around a silvery travel mug. Steam rose, curling about his mouth and adding its subtle presence to the mist his breath was creating. A large, shiny thermos sat upright on the bench beside him.

"Cross-country goes first," Gordon replied, making a quick gesture toward the field below them, and tucking his hand back into his jacket. They were sitting halfway up the bleachers, where the sun had been shining for a while, warming the metal enough to make sitting bearable. They weren't the only spectators, but there were few others. "The competing team had to come from Southborough, which is a couple of hours away. Cross-country will do their thing, then they'll have some rest and lunch, and the field events will be held this afternoon." He craned his neck. "Hey, there's Coach!"

"And there's A-Alan." Fermat stood to his feet and waved with both gloved hands. Gordon pulled a vidcam from his pocket, held it where he could focus on the field, then put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Not only did he gain the attention of their target, but also the attention of all the gathered competitors. Alan, wearing his school's colors in warm up jacket and trousers, grinned, and waved back, then turned his attention to his warm up exercises.

"I w-wish we could f-follow them on this race," Fermat said as he sat down. "Just like they do on TV."

"Me, too, Fermat," Gordon kept his camera up for a little bit longer, then lowered it. "All I'll be able to send up to John is the beginning and the end."

"Television broadcasts set up c-cameras at specific spots. Even they don't c-cover the whole r-r-r... track," Brains reminded them.

"I bet they'll use that new Action Cam thing during the next Olympics," Gordon said, hunkering down again. "If they had something like that here, they wouldn't have to have spotters out making sure no one is cheating."

Fermat dropped his voice to a low murmur. "I w-wonder if something l-like that would be h-h-h... an aid in, uh, you-know-w-what."

"Hm. I suppose it would. Never thought about that," Gordon said, his tone off-handed. His attention was fixed on his brother, who stretched and lunged and jogged in place. Brains, on the other hand, gave his son a thoughtful look, and pulled his PDA from an inner coat pocket.

The athletes now positioned themselves at the starting line, which was set on Wharton's six-lane, red urethane track. Three of the six team members had taken up positions in the lanes, while the other three runners - Alan was one of these - ranged behind. Dressed in shorts and singlets over thin thermal leggings and wearing running shoes suitable for pavement and more natural surfaces, Alan in particular looked focused and ready.

The gun sounded, and the runners took off, clearing the track at the first bend and heading off field in a small group. Fermat jumped to his feet, shouting, "Go, Alan, go!" Gordon, camera in hand, bounded down the bleacher steps to film the racers as long as he could, but they quickly disappeared from sight. Brains looked up from his PDA and frowned.

"Has the r-race st-started already?" he asked, sounding slightly befuddled.

"Yeah, D-Dad." Fermat sat back down beside his father. He hefted the thermos. "More c-coffee?"

"I'll g-get it myself, s-s-s... Fermat," Brains said, going back to his PDA. "Just l-let me know wh-when they're near the f-f-finish line."

"S-Sure, Dad." Fermat settled down and pulled up his jacket collar. Below, he could see Gordon exchanging a hand shake, then a back-thump with Coach Evans. Fermat watched as Evans introduced Gordon to the other team's coach, a tall, muscular man with short cropped black hair. He peered over at his father's PDA. The small screen showed a small portion of schematics; Fermat could make neither heads nor tails of the tiny bit of data. His father was intent on what he was doing, so much so that he was oblivious to Fermat's interest. With a sigh, the boy hunched down in his heavy jacket, tugging his knit cap down a little more, and sliding each of his cold hands into the opposite sleeve.

I guess this is the boring part.

The race's layout took them parallel to the access road for a little bit before a left turn plunged them into the woods. Alan found the cold air bracing, though his knit team cap felt odd on his head. Forgetting his hat for the morning run had made him all the more determined to wear it during the meet. His sweatshirt hood, no matter how closely tied, just didn't fit snugly enough, and would provide more wind resistance than the close-fitting hat.

The route followed the line of Wharton's back fence. Spotters, members from both track teams, as well as a few Wharton teachers, kept watch at regular intervals, looking not only for possible cheaters but also for injuries. A good thing, too, as one of the competing team's runners slipped a few paces ahead of him. Alan had to strongly squelch the urge to stop and help, moving past the injured runner with an internal wince. I guess the urge to rescue has really been pounded into me.

He worked to regain his focus, pacing himself, trying to stay a consistent distance behind the lead runner – a member of the opposing team. He felt he was perfectly positioned to make a move in the final stretch. Though he was intent on what he was doing, little sensory details still made themselves known. The scent of pine and spruce, their rough, scaly bark, gooey-looking bits of pine pitch congealed on bark and branch, the quiet crunch of dry pine needles underfoot that segued into the gritty shifting noise and feel of dead, damp leaves as they went from the tall pines to a clump of now-barren oaks, the occasional flash of white birch... all these and more called for his attention. In some corner of his mind, they were recognized, and he unconsciously filed them away as a blurred part of the whole.

As they paced alongside Wharton's outer barrier, Alan noticed an abrupt change in the fence itself. Some of it was a familiar dark gray, the links weathered by wet and wind and cold. But at one point, that gray became a shiny silver, the color of new metal. A brief glance showed him that the old fence veered off in a different direction entirely and was soon lost to view, while the route they were running took them along this new section. He couldn't quite figure out why the school had raised a new barrier out there on the fringes of its property, nor why the highly visible, "No Trespassing" signs were studded along its length - until he came to a familiar spot, and his pace slowed to a crawl, then to a stop. He felt the blood drain from his face. Bile rose in his throat; he swallowed it with difficulty.

Though he couldn't quite make out the actual Hollow itself – it was just out of sight, behind a wide clump of tangled bushes and the honeycomb of new fence – he was familiar enough with the terrain and pathways that accessed it. The ways he had taken on that bogus rescue, when he had fallen into Lee Sugimoto's ambush. The paths Fermat and his friends had used in their surprise rescue. The trails Sugi had fled along when he attempted his escape. The still sharp visions of that night threatened to overwhelm him and his knees nearly gave way.

"Alan!" Jameson, who had been several paces behind, came up beside him, jogging lightly in place. "You okay?" Glancing at what Alan's eyes were fixed on, he took a sharp breath, and stopped entirely. "C'mon, Alan. We'll let the next spotter know you need to go back."

His words were like cold water dashed in Alan's face. He shook his head violently, and a shiver passed down him from scalp to toes.

"No."

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head again, with less force. "No," he repeated. He transferred his gaze to Jameson and gave him a curt nod. "I'm not going back." With that, he shook his head one last time, and took off, breaking into a sprint.

His teammate followed, catching up long enough to ask, "Are you sure?"

Alan swallowed, then gave him a small, grim smile. "Watch my dust."

"H-Here they come!" Fermat was standing at the top of the bleachers, in a corner where he could get the clearest view of the incoming runners. He held the vidcam up, and focused it on the racers. Gordon was down on the field, having talked his way into helping at the finish line, and had handed the recording duties to the younger boy. A small crowd had gathered, mostly made up of those who had been spotters, returned from their duties, but also a number of Wharton students and teachers, and a few parents from each team. Fermat stared out through the viewscreen, looking for his friend.

"D-Dad!" He pointed toward the runners as his father joined him. "Look! A-A-Alan's in second!"

It had taken nearly all he had just to catch up. His heart pounded and his lungs burned as Alan pushed himself forward, trying to overtake the competing runner in front of him. Gone were the measured pace, the programmed breathing, the team spirit. All that was left was the pure drive to win, to be the first to cross that finish line. To prove to himself that he was putting those awful events behind him for good.

The last length brought them down a grassy hill, now dry from the sun's rays. The flags directed the runners down the slope at an angle, first from right to left, with a sharp dogleg halfway down the hill, then left to right with another sharp turn at the base. After that, it was a straightaway to the finish.

Alan pelted down the hill, his speed so reckless he looked as if he might take a tumble. The front runner was only a few meters ahead, and there was no way that he couldn't know someone was that close on his tail. Indeed, he did know, for when he cleared that final set of turn flags, he put on a burst of speed that seemed to leave everyone else in the dust.

Everyone but Alan Tracy. He made the final turn. The ropes that funneled the runners to the finish was visible, as was the back of his nearest competitor. Both sights urged him on, gave him a second wind, and with that he surged ahead, his only thought to pass the runner in front of him.

But his second wind was brief; he felt himself slowing. His feet felt leaden; each step like he was running in thick molasses. Yet, he didn't stop. The runner before him entered the funnel. The runner behind him attempted to pass, and Alan put every last remaining ounce of energy into staying ahead. He caught a quick glimpse of his brother's grin just before crossing the finish line. His momentum took him a few yards more; he slowed to a stop, bent over, hands on his thighs, red-faced and gasping for air.

"Keep walking," Zave said as he came up, pressing lightly on Alan's back with one hand while offering a paper cup of sports drink with the other. "Don't let those muscles cramp."

Breathless, Alan could only nod. He straightened slowly, and drank what he'd been given, walking and stretching as he did so. Zave went off to greet the next Wharton runner, Jameson. Alan made his way over to the tall plastic jug to refill his cup.

"Hey." The winning runner came up to the dispenser just as Alan finished filling his cup. When Alan looked up, he said, "Good race."

Alan smiled a little and took his opponent's proffered hand. "Yeah, it was. Congrats on coming in first."

"Thanks." The other runner refilled his own cup while Alan drained his. "I haven't seen you at our other meets. Just joined the team?"

"Nah." Alan shook his head. His breathing was evening out, and he refilled the cup once more. "I was red-shirted for a bit. Had some injuries. Just got the okay to come back and compete."

"Ah, okay." His competitor drank, then crushed the paper cup and tossed it in the nearby trash can. Other runners began to arrive, looking to quench their own thirst. "See you later, Tracy."

"Yeah, later." Alan frowned as he finished his drink. "How'd he know my name?" he muttered under his breath, crushing, then disposing of his cup.

"It's only on the back of your uniform, idiot." Alan turned at his brother's voice. "Don't tell me you didn't notice his." Alan blinked, and his face blushed crimson. Gordon laughed, and threw an arm across the younger man's shoulders. "You didn't, did you?"

"Uh, no. Do you know...?"

"His name is McGillicudy. How you couldn't see that, especially since you were following so closely, I'll never understand."

"I was kinda focused on my running."

"Well, you did good. Time looked fine, and though the guy that came after you was from the opposing team, the next three were Wharton."

"So, what's the score?"

Gordon glanced over his shoulder, to where the coaches were talking. "Not sure yet. I've never officiated at cross-country before. All I did was take the numbers of the runners as they came in." He shrugged. "It got a little hairy at the end, but I think we got everyone."

"What order did everyone come in?" Alan glanced to where Coach Evans was listening to Zave and Jameson while the other coach waited.

Gordon looked thoughtful. "Well, McGillicudy was first; you were second. Then a guy from the other team, then three from Wharton, one from the other team, and two from Wharton came in last."

Alan began to add things up in his head. "We took second, fourth, fifth, sixth, tenth and... eleventh?" He frowned. "Oh, that's right. One of their players was injured. So they'd count the first five on each team." He began to add things up. "That's a score of 27 for us, then. They took first, third, seventh, eighth and ninth..." He began to smile. "That's right! As long as no one else was disqualified, we won!"

"Lowest score wins, I take it?" Gordon asked, a grin spreading over his face.

"Yup!" Alan shook his head. "But man! What a close meet!" He started putting his uniform pants and jacket on over his thermals, and took off his sweat-laden hat. The cold air had begun to work its way into his damp clothes, and he wanted a hot shower and change before the afternoon meets. The coaches were still discussing something, though Zave and Jameson were no longer part of the conversation. Fermat and Brains had come down from the heights and were sitting on the second row. It seemed to be the thing to do; the other spectators were also waiting. The rest of the team was waiting, too, putting on their warm-ups and discussing the race.

"It wouldn't affect the score that much," Alan heard Zave saying to Jameson, as the team captain brought some equipment to the sidelines. "As long as he's not disqualified, we're still the winners."

"We might have gotten a better score if he hadn't stopped." Jameson sounded insistent. "And his time - not to mention mine - that definitely was affected."

"You didn't have to stop, y'know," Zave said, shaking his head.

Jameson responded, but Alan was no longer listening. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing he'd never come back to the team, that he had dropped out entirely.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and opened his eyes to see Gordon's concerned face. "You okay, bro?"

Alan shrugged. "Yeah," he lied. "I'm okay."

"Good," Gordon said, making a motion with his head toward the two coaches, who seemed to have finally come to an agreement. "I think they're ready to declare the winner."

Alan's stomach began to knot, and his frame stiffened as Coach Evans picked up the bullhorn. He cleared his throat, which sounded terribly loud coming from the amplifier. "Thank you all for your patience. The score from today's meet is 27 points for Wharton, and 28 points for St. Mark's. Wharton is the winner."

There was clapping, cheering, and whistling from the stands for a few moments, then people began to gather up their things. The two teams lined up and walked past each other, shaking or tapping hands in a gesture of sportsmanship. When Alan had come through the line, Coach Evans approached him.

"Alan, I need to talk to you."

Smothering a sigh, Alan replied, "Yes, sir."

Coach drew them away from most of the activity, and kept walking as he spoke. "Jameson tells me that you stopped out there during the race. Just stopped." His tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

This time Alan didn't stifle his sigh. "We were following along the fence at the back of the school's property. Some of the fence back there is new." He glanced at his coach, who nodded encouragement. "The Hollow is back there, beyond the new fence. I couldn't see it, but... I've been out there plenty and I know all the little trails...." He let his voice trail off and shrugged. "It caught me by surprise, and I guess I had a flashback."

Evans put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "I'm sorry that happened, Alan. That has been one of our standard routes, though we had to alter it on account of the new fence. When we were making those alterations, I thought something like this might happen, but I also felt it was a calculated risk. I didn't know how often you'd visited there, and whether or not you'd recognize the place in daylight. Zave wasn't sure either. He didn't have time to consult his brother, or anyone else who might know." He stopped walking and turned to face Alan. "We'll make some more alterations to that route before we use it again. Do you think that will help?"

Hands jammed deep into his warm-up jacket's pockets, Alan nodded. "Yeah. I guess so." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Actually, Coach, I think it was just the unexpectedness of it all." He looked down for a moment. "I think..."

Coach waited for a couple of seconds, then prompted, "Alan? You think?"

Alan took a deep breath and raised his gaze to the coach's face. "I think I can handle it after today. It just took me by surprise, that's all."

Coach Evans's dropped his hand, and his forehead wrinkled with a frown. "Are you sure? We don't have to go that way if it's going to make you have flashbacks."

"I know." Alan moistened his lips with his tongue and took another deep breath. "I'm sure. Don't change the route. I can handle it."

The older man's frown eased, but did not disappear entirely. "Okay. I'll take your word for it." He put his hand on Alan's shoulder again and gave the boy a little shake. "We don't run that route but a few times a year – a course that's repeated too often gives the home team an unfair advantage. However, when we next use it, if you're still having trouble, you are to drop out of the race and tell me immediately. Do you understand?"

Alan nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good." Coach nodded decisively. "Last thing you need is to continue having flashbacks just because of this sport." He steered them back to the quickly-dwindling crowd. "Now, tell me: what made you start up again? Jameson told me you took off like a rabbit."

At this, Alan snorted. "I guess... I think I wanted to prove that it was behind me. That what happened, and the guys who did it, couldn't take this from me."

"Good." Evans smiled now, the lines in his weathered face deepening. "That's a good attitude to have. And you're right; they can't take this from you. The only one who can do that is you yourself." He paused and looked toward the bleachers. "Now, your brother and Fermat are waiting. Grab your gear, get some lunch, and I'll see you back here at one for the field events."

"Okay, Coach." Alan took a few steps forward, then turned to look back. "Coach?"

"Yes, Alan?"

Alan smiled. "Thanks."

Coach returned the smile. "You're welcome, Alan. See you at one."

Alan nodded, and broke into a short sprint, joining Gordon, Brains and Fermat, and giving the latter a high-five. The coach watched him go, sighing slightly.

The earlier win from the cross-country squad had the effect of galvanizing the rest of the team. Nearly everyone did well. By comparison, Alan's afternoon events were anti-climactic. His three long jumps would have been impressive, had he not marked the plasticine every time. He fared better in the high jump; not one of his attempts failed, though on the last jump, he changed from his usual method to the Fosbury Flop. The result both pleased and irked him.

"Why the sour face, Pinky?" Zave asked after the meet.

"Looks like I might have to change my strategy," Alan grumbled. "What I'm doing... seems it has limits."

Zave just grinned, the "I told you so" as evident in his eyes and smile as if he'd actually said it.

"It's been good to see you again, Gordon," Coach Evans said as Alan approached his brother. "You sure you don't want to come back and take classes again? The swim team could use you."

"No way, Coach, no way!" Gordon grinned and shook his head. "Though maybe once I'm done with college... maybe I can come back and take your job."

The coach laughed. "Believe me, Gordon, there are days I'd gladly give it to you. Then there are days... like today," Evans glanced over at Alan, "where I wouldn't give it up for the world."

Gordon gave his brother a keen look and nodded. "Yeah. I can see that."

There was an awkward moment, then Coach held out his hand. "Again, good to see you, Gordon. You know you're welcome any time."

"I'll try to get back again before the season ends." Gordon shook the coach's hand, and the older man walked off. Zave trailed behind him, carrying the last of the equipment to a waiting van.

"It's good to see him again," Gordon remarked. He turned to his brother. "Hey, get changed and gather up your friends. I want to take as many of you as possible out to dinner. My treat."

Fermat glanced up at his father. "How m-many is 'many'?"

Brains frowned, a thoughtful look. "We d-d-did rent a s-s-s... large vehicle this time with something like this in m-mind. We can p-probably take... f-four or f-five with us."

Alan and Fermat put their heads together, then Alan glanced up at his brother. "Might take a bit to track everyone down, though there's one guy I can ask right now." He waved his arm and shouted, "Hey, Zave!"

Zave stopped climbing into the passenger seat of the van and shouted back, "Yeah, Pinky?"

"Wanna go to dinner with us? My brother's buying!"

Zave thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, sure! Just let me get cleaned up! When and where should we meet?"

Fermat and Alan looked at each other, then at Gordon. Fermat shrugged; Gordon said, "Six-thirty."

"In front of Birchwood at six-thirty!" Alan hollered.

"Okay. See you then." With that, Zave climbed into the passenger seat and the van pulled away.

"So, wh-who else?" Brains asked.

"Kay, Jase, and Dom?" Alan asked, giving Fermat a questioning glance.

"S-Sure," was Fermat's reply. "Too b-bad A.J. isn't h-here this weekend. He went h-home with his d-d-d... father again." He thought a moment, then asked, "Can I invite R-Robbie B-Bennett? He's a t-teammate of m-mine."

"That would make five," Gordon said, counting on his fingers. "I think we can manage it."

"G-Great!" Fermat grinned. "I'll g-go ask him n-now!"

"You d-do that, son," Brains said. "I n-need to c-contact the island."

"Me, too," Gordon said. "Gotta upload this video to Dad and John." He made a motion of his head toward the dorms. "Go get cleaned up, Al, and get your posse together. We'll be there soon."

"Right. C'mon, Fermat!" Alan shouldered his gym bag and started off toward the access road behind the dorms. Fermat hesitated, looking back at his father.

Brains flapped a hand, shooing his son on his way. "I'll be a-along soon, son. Go invite your f-friend."

"O-Okay, Dad!" Fermat grinned, then turned and ran to catch up with Alan.

Gordon sidled back over to the bleachers, linking the camera to his phone. "This might take a bit," he said, grimacing. "There's more vid here than I thought." He glanced at Brains. "When you're finished calling the island, can you please look for a decent place to take seven hungry kids?"

"D-Don't you mean eight?" Brains replied with a smug smile. "A-As I r-r-recall, you're still a t-t-t-teenager yourself."

Shaking his head, Gordon rolled his eyes. "Age-wise, maybe. But I'm not a kid anymore."

Brains's smile turned into a wicked grin. "I know some f-folks who would d-d-d... argue with you about th-that."