The Less-Dead by April Lurie Page A

moron and walk away? Why didn’t I keep Will’s book instead of throwing it into the trash?
    “Come on,” Quindlan says. “You’ll want to find Will before it gets dark.”

{ten}
    CARSON AND I follow the rocky path through the dense woods filled with juniper and oak trees. When we reach the twin waterfalls, the smell of burning wood grows stronger. We follow it and find Will. He’s far from the beaten path, sitting in front of a small campfire. He leans forward, squinting at us. “Noah? Carson? What are you guys doing here?”
    Before either of us can answer, I hear a rustling in the woods. We stop. Footsteps draw closer. Suddenly Hawk appears right in front of us, carrying a bundle of wood and sticks. He looks like he just stepped out of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. “What the hell … ?” He glares at us like we’re trespassers. “Who told you we were here?” He sees the map in my hand and snatches it. “Who drew this?”
    “Um, Will’s friend Quindlan,” I say.
    “Quindlan?
Damn
that idiot. What’s he thinking?” He turns to Will.
    “Hawk, dude, calm down,” Will says. “Noah and Carson are cool. There’s nothing to worry about.”
    “Oh, there’s plenty to worry about. I told you, Will, I never should have given Noah that note.” He gives Carson and me a disgusted look, then marches to the fire and tosses in the map. The paper flares up quickly, then dies, smoldering. Not exactly the reception I was expecting.
    “Don’t mind Hawk,” Will says. “He overreacts to everything. Come here, sit down. I’m glad you guys found me.”
    As we weave our way over to Will, Hawk throws the wood into a pile, plucks a rope from the ground, pulls out a pocket knife, and cuts the rope in half. Mumbling to himself, he proceeds to tie one end of the rope to the branch of a tree.
    We take seats on either side of Will. “So you guys met Quindlan and Doomsday, huh? What did you think?”
    “I think they’re both pretty nuts,” Carson says. “Especially Doomsday. Quindlan’s all right, I guess. His dog’s pretty cool. Anyway, I’m glad Quindlan drew us that map. We’ve been worried about you.”
    I watch Hawk from the corner of my eye. He’s tying the other end of the rope to an adjacent tree. When he’s done, he plucks a wet towel from a nearby branch and hangs it on the line to dry. I look around the campsite. A jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread sit on a tree stump. A gallon of milk is chilling in a bucket of ice. A sleeping bag is spread out on the ground. Hawk is taking care of Will. Making sure he has everything he needs. I consider asking how things went in jail, but I figure that’s not a good idea.
    “Will?” I say. “Quindlan told me you knew the kid they found near Town Lake. I’m really sorry.”
    “Yeah. Paul Mateo. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he was one of the first kids I got to know in foster care after my parents died. We were both, well, different, which is why we became friends, but Paul got teased a lot. The other kids called him faggot and queer. I feel bad now because I never stood up for him. I guess I was afraid those same kids would turn on me, too. Anyway, I found out that Paul had been hustling on the streets. Right before the murder. I had no idea.”
    “Hustling?” I say. “You mean …”
    “Right.”
    No one says anything for a while. Hawk is standing quietly by the clothesline. He’s been listening the whole time.
    “Hey, Will?” Carson says. “How did you find out it was Paul? I thought the police weren’t releasing his name because he was under eighteen.”
    Will opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.
    Meanwhile Hawk strolls over and sits opposite us. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “Be careful what you say, Will,” he mutters.
    Hawk and Will lock eyes for a moment; Will nods, then turns to us. “The undercover detective I’d been working with, the one who had me wear the wire, he told me it was Paul Mateo who