“It’s not me,” said Red. “It’s not me” was his usual position; he resorted to it in class, on the playground and at home, where he lived with his parents and sisters. Alan, swearing through his teeth, stood on the edge of the ravine and peered into what was happening at the bottom. Rick held him by the back of his sweatshirt, as if he was afraid that Red wouldn’t feel enough. “It’s not me,” Red repeated louder. All three watched as Jimmy rose to his feet. He looked at his hands, red from nettles, rubbed his face and bent over a branch. “Now he’ll fix it for you,” Alan promised Red with a mockery.