Bobby - 12/3/1996, 4:41 p.m.

He didn’t see it at first—even though he’d learned to look carefully before entering. Unlatching the aluminum gate, he walked halfway to the house before tossing today’s rolled newspaper squarely onto the porch. A perfect landing. But the sound startled and awakened the pit bull sleeping on the side of the porch. It tore after Bobby, barking as it closed in for the kill.

Bobby barely had time to scramble the couple yards back to the entrance and slam the gate behind him, quickly fastening the latch as the dog balanced on its hind legs against the chain-link fence, viciously growling at the intrusion.

Taking a moment to let his heart regain a normal rhythm and catch his breath, Bobby noticed a couple of newspapers had fallen out of his bag onto the sidewalk. As he bent to pick them up, he was suddenly aware of being watched.

He stood up and saw them approaching from across the street. A new panic arose in him, but he tried to remain nonchalant. He only had the eight houses left on this block and then he could cut through the Wilkinsons’ yard and be home safe.

“Hey hillbilly! You working hard to pay your family’s bills?” It was Brett, the tall one. His henchmen flanked him on either side. The dog continued barking, now at the three new boys.

Bobby ignored them and continued to the next house, throwing the newspaper from the sidewalk—too hard—and it crashed into the front door with a bang.

“Nice throw dipshit. You throw like a girl.” Brett yelled after him, gaining ground.

Terrified of another confrontation, Bobby instead chose flight, hating himself for it later.