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Billy ran as fast as he could away from the crash of the broken window, down the hill on the side of the house and up over the dirt piles that the Bobcats had deposited from digging out the foundation months ago. Billy then raced through the construction fence around the back of the house. It was spring but the ground was hard. Men shouted inside the house making a noise like loud, wounded wild animals.

Once through the fence, Billy slipped into the narrow alleyway next to the Jensens' garage, hopped their peeling picket fence, and landed in Mrs. Jensen's newly dug garden with both feet. The wild animals were barely audible now, but the shreek from Mrs. Jensen -- who was just then staring out her kitchen window -- re-fired Billy's heart and he took off around the house, through the front yard, and dashed into the lilacs across the street, heading for home.

Just then, a shot rang out. A dog barked. Three small chickens cackled. A writer became bored. He -- the writer, not Billy -- had finished his five minutes of writing, and was ready to go back and play chess.