Lost Boy Lost Girl. Peter Straub

the corner of West Burleigh. Without waiting for the light, they ran across the busy street and continued on into the little park.

      A substantial crowd of people milled aimlessly around the dry twenty-foot basin of the fountain. The competing sounds of Phish and Eminem drifted out of two facing boom boxes. Together, Mark and Jimbo noticed the uniformed officer leaning against the patrol car parked off to the side.

      As soon as they saw the cop, their way of walking became more self-conscious and mannered. Indicating their indifference to official observation, they dipped their knees, dropped one shoulder, and tilted their heads.

      ‘Yo, little homeboys,’ the policeman called.

      They pretended to take in his presence for the first time. Smiling, the cop waved them forward. ‘Come here, you guys. I want you to look at something.’

      The boys lounged toward him. It was like a magic trick: one second the officer’s hands were empty, the next they held up an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of a stoner metalhead. ‘Do you know this guy?’

      ‘Who is he?’ Jimbo asked. ‘He’s in trouble, right?’