Marci’s fist.
He waggled it at Andrew mockingly, then charged, crossing the distance between them with long, loping strides, the fist held out before him like a lance. Alan forgot the knife in his hand and shrank back, and then Davey was on him again, dropping the fist to the mud and taking hold of Alan’s knife-wrist, digging his ragged nails into the bleeding bites there.
Now Alan released the knife, so that it, too, fell to the mud, and the sound it made woke him from his reverie. He pulled his hand free of Davey’s grip and punched him in the ear as hard as he could, simultaneously kneeing him in the groin. Davey hissed and punched him in the eye, a feeling like his eyeball was going to break open, a feeling like he’d been stabbed in the back of his eye socket.
He planted a foot in the mud for leverage, then flipped Danny over so that Alan was on top, knees on his skinny chest. The knife was there beside Davey’s head, and Alan snatched it up, holding it ready for stabbing.
Danny’s eyes narrowed.
Alan could do it. Kill him altogether dead finished yeah. Stab him in the face or the heart or the lung, somewhere fatal. He could kill Davey and make him go away forever.
Davey caught his eye and held it. And Alan knew he couldn’t do it, and an instant later, Davey knew it, too. He smiled a crusty smile and went limp.
“Oh, don’t hurt me, please,” he said mockingly. “Please, big brother, don’t stab me with your big bad knife!”
Alan hurt all over, but especially on his bicep and his thumb. His head sang with pain and blood loss.
“Don’t hurt me, please!” Davey said.