The alarm went off.

The boy rose from sleep-with some difficulty, but not as much as he would have thought.

It varied, from day to day and week to week. Today, it was less.

He glanced at the clock. 4:30 AM. They should be here by now, outside, on the porch. Sometimes he would wake early and hear them arrive. Sometimes it was their arrival that woke him up, not the alarm.

He dressed, grabbed the small blue bag with the silver trim. He walked softly to the front door, careful not to make too much noise, although he couldn’t remember the last time he had.

He locked the door behind him. The stack of newspapers sat there, the ones on the top torn and frayed against the yellow plastic binding, as usual. He peeled the tab, and the binding came free.

He loaded the papers into his bag. His bicycle was broken, as usual; he couldn’t remember the last time it had worked for longer than a month. He didn’t mind-he enjoyed walking. But riding would’ve ended things sooner, make it less likely that he would have to rush when he returned.

He began walking up the block, passing houses, sliding papers in mailboxes or under welcome mats. The sky was still dark, the suburban neighborhood quiet. He listened to sprinklers on automatic timers, the occasional dog in the distance. He still heard crickets. But no cars. No people.

He fought the urge to talk aloud, talk to himself. It made things more intimate, less solitary, to hear his own voice. But you shouldn’t talk to yourself, he thought. Not even when you’re all alone. Especially not when you’re alone.

He entered the woods near the top of the road, walking one of the well-worn paths that hadn’t been fenced off, that cut between streets, between neighborhoods.

He kicked stones absent-mindedly as he walked. He was getting too old for a paper route, he thought. It didn’t pay enough-not enough for prom, or CDs, or any of the other things he needed. Maybe he would go to the supermarket after school, get a cashier job like the rest of his friends. It seemed like the next logical step. He just wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to take it.

The path rose slightly as it wound up to the next street. He had been walking with his head down. As he lifted it, he stopped.

He could see the street, about ten feet away, through a frame of branches. A still-lit street light was visible, above the tops of the trees.

A man jogged in place, on the street, directly in the center of the frame. He looked as if he was his parents’ age, maybe a bit older.

He was completely nude.

Well, not completely. He was wearing a pair of sneakers and socks.

But otherwise, completely nude.

As the boy stood and stared through the trees, the man continued to jog in place.

The man wasn’t in shape-his skin was weird and wrinkled, his body lumpy. He was covered in what could’ve been freckles, but were probably liver spots. He was hairless.

The man stared directly ahead, and the boy wondered, more out of curiosity than fear, what would happen if he turned his head to the left. Would he see the boy through the trees? Run away in embarrassment? Charge at him?

He saw the man’s penis. It was slightly erect, sort-of at half-mast, but not totally rigid. Was this some weird sex thing? Was he hoping to run into someone out here? Rape someone?

Did he just get really exercise this way?

Did it feel good?

Why would you be naked, here, outside, in public? Who would expose themselves that way, ruining their lives completely if they were caught? Why -

The man went forward, a slow, even gait.

The boy was startled. Did he see me? Did he hear me?

Had he stopped for too long?

The boy glanced at his watch. Shit.

Just give it five minutes, he thought.

Five minutes later, the boy walked forward, through the trees, and onto the street. He turned left, and looked down the road.

The man was nowhere to be seen.

The boy lingered for a few minutes.

Then he turned right, and returned to his route.