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“Okay, your teacher, then. I did teach you everything,” he says almost proudly, his left eye already swelling shut.

I shake my head and hit him again. And again. The skin on my knuckles cracks open as his nose pops.

“You didn’t teach me how to fight,” I growl.

“Sure . . . ptthh . . .” He spits a wad of blood to the floor, tottering sideways. He’s holding on to the edge of the reference desk just to stay on his feet. “Sure I did. You just didn’t like fighting dirty.”

There’s a noise from above, a loud crack, like a snapped bone. A few shelves down, my father pulls the animal horn free from the wall.

“I got it!” he calls out.

I look away for barely a second. That’s all Roosevelt needs.

From the edge of the reference desk, he grabs a stapler, flips it open like a butterfly knife, and swings straight at my face.

I try my best to turn away. I’m not nearly fast enough.

Cunk.

The staple sinks its teeth into my cheek, biting hard as my jaw lurches sideways.

“Naaaahhhh!” I scream through clenched teeth.

Already stumbling backward, I’m completely off balance as Roosevelt plows toward me. He’s big like a truck and knows how to use it to his advantage.

Winding up with the stapler, he swings at my face again. And again. And again. I raise my arm—still sore from Benoni—to block each shot, but all it does is send the staples into my forearm, which burns from each metal bee sting.

But it’s not until I spot him glancing over my shoulder that I see what he’s really aiming for: the empty mop bucket that sits next to the sink—and is now right behind me.

The backs of my legs hit it at full speed. I’ve already got too much momentum. Like an overloaded lever, I tumble backward, my head hitting the hard green industrial tile with a brutal thud. For a moment, the world goes black with bright, burning stars.

As I blink them away, Roosevelt pounces, ever the mountain cat, landing on my chest and using his full weight to pin my arms back with his knees. With his big paws, he holds my throat with one hand, then pins the stapler against my Adam’s apple. He learned this one talking to Ellis. He’s aiming for my jugular. And as hard as he’s pressing down, he’s gonna take a deep chunk of it.

“Lloyd, I see you!” Roosevelt calls out.

Back by the bookcase, my father leaps down from the chair and freezes with the carved horn in his hand.

“I need to know what you’re doing, Lloyd,” Roosevelt says in full southern drawl. “You got a real big decision to make.”

I wait for my father to panic. From where he’s standing across the room, I can only see him out of the corner of my eye. But he’s not swaying or stuttering or scratching at his beard. Worst of all, he’s not even looking at me.

“Dad, whatever he offers, he’s a liar!” I shout, barely able to get out the words.

Roosevelt presses the stapler even harder. “Your boy has a point, Lloyd. But do you really wanna go back to your old life? That old trailer? Or better yet, a second visit to prison? I can tell you right now, they’re not gonna have your fancy Michael Kors shirts there.”

My father stares at Roosevelt, never once breaking eye contact. My dad doesn’t hesitate.

“I found it. I want a finder’s fee,” my father insists, gripping the horn.

“Money won’t be an issue,” Roosevelt promises. “Now what about your son?”

“You don’t have to hurt him.”

“That’s not really one of the options, Lloyd. Try again.”

“I can stall him. I’ll stall him. If I don’t, then you don’t send me my cash.”

Roosevelt doesn’t smile. His eyes narrow.

“Thank you, Lloyd,” he says calmly. “I just need the weapon first,” he adds, extending his free hand. No question, this part’s a test.

But my dad again reacts quickly, passing with flying colors. Heading toward us, he holds the ancient brown animal horn from the bottom tip, like an ice-cream cone. The top of the cone—the wider side of the horn—is covered by a tan piece of leather that’s pulled taut as a drum. The closer he gets, the more clearly I can see that half the horn’s carvings have cracked off or faded