It took Cooper until after midnight to find the place.

The dead-end alley gaped like a an open mouth full of sharp, rotting teeth. A single light burned five stories overhead; it cast the scene in a dull, greasy sheen. It smelled like dead animals, used-up fry-cooking oil, and human waste. Cooper did a gut-check, but already knew the answer: this was the place. He was here.

Cooper took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

You can do this, he told himself. Just remember what Doc said, and everything will be okay.

He took a step into the alley. And then another. And another. He was beginning to wonder if his gut had been wrong, and felt the first glimmers of relief when —

“Turn around, man. And your hands — keep your hands where I can see ’em!”

Cooper turned around, his hands held out from his body. He shook his head. He really should have seen this coming.

A punk stood between him and the mouth of the alley. There was no other way to describe him. He was young — maybe 17 if that — and wiry, with pasty skin and a tall, green mohawk. He wore a leather jacket three sizes too big for him and held a switchblade knife in front of him. It made small, quick motions, stabbing and slashing as if it had a twitchy life all its own.

“What do you want, Damon?” Cooper kept his voice flat. It was important not to sound scared, Doc had said, but you don’t want sound threatening either.

“How d’you know my name, man?”

“The same way you know mine,” said Cooper. “Yes you do,” he continued, when Damon opened his mouth to argue. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Damon lied. “I don’t know you, man. Now shut up! Gimme your wallet or I’ll cut you!”

“Really?” said Cooper. “That’s your line? ‘I’ll cut you’ — you hear that in a movie some place?”

Damon’s little jabs and slashes got closer to Cooper, but not close enough to concern him yet.

“And what’s with the Mohawk?” he went on. “A green Mohawk? What is this, 1982? Who does that?”

“I’m a punk,” snarled Damon with a curled lip that he’d been practicing for years in the mirror. “I’m dangerous and anti-social. I reject you, your society, and all the lies and corruption that go along with it.”

It all sounded so… childish to Cooper now. He smiled, and the moment he did he knew it was a mistake. Damon glared at him.

“You know what? I don’t want your money, man. Now I just want to see you bleed.”

He was faster than Cooper had expected. He was everywhere with that knife: cutting across Cooper’s ribs, stabbing at his arms, poking at the hands he held up to protect his face. Cooper staggered backwards, deeper into the alley. The smell of the place choked him.

Cooper’d had about enough. He’d tried to be non-threatening, but Damon wouldn’t listen to reason. Of course he wouldn’t — he was a punk. Cooper was mad at the Doc for giving him bad advice, and mad at himself for following it instead of going with his gut. But mostly, he was mad at Damon and his flashing blade.

He shot out a hand and grabbed the punk’s jacket, pulled him in close, and slapped him so hard across the face his hand stung.

Damon’s eyes went wide.

“That was to get your attention,” growled Cooper. “Drop the knife or the next smack won’t be so gentle.”

Damon’s switchblade clattered on the ground.

“Good. That’s better. Now we can talk.”

Cooper loosened his grip on the punk’s jacket, but stood between him and the alley mouth. He wasn’t letting the kid get past him.

“What… what d’you want to talk about?”

“Are you happy?”

“What?”

“Simple question, Damon. Are. You. Happy?”

Damon shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, what’s happiness, man? I’m a punk –”

“No you’re not,” Cooper cut him off. He was losing his patience. “Doc says you’re a manifestation of my unrealized rebellion from when I was a teenager. So now that you’ve had a chance to live a little, to manifest that rebellion, I got to know… Did it make you happy?”

Damon looked down at the ground.

“I like it when people are scared of me. That’s kinda fun.”

“Does it make you happy?”

“Yeah. For a minute.”

Cooper smiled.

“At least you’re being honest. And you’re right; it is kinda fun. The good news is, you’ll still get to do that. Scaring folks is part of my job.

“The bad news is, it’s time to go.”

Cooper grabbed a double-handful of Damon’s jacket and held him tight.

“I don’t wanna go!”

Cooper’s eyes burned into Damon’s. The punk wanted to look away. Cooper could feel him twisting in his mind, struggling, but the sessions with Doc had given him the strength and training to do what needed to be done. He held Damon’s gaze until the world around them vanished, and even Damon himself faded to nothing but a pair of eyes that Cooper would know anywhere.

And then Damon was gone.

Cooper looked down at his hands, which were still holding the jacket. He shrugged and put it on it. It fit perfectly. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before heading back out to the street.

“Come on, buddy,” he said to the muffled voice in his head. “We’ve still got a boy scout,
a Russian Orthodox priest, and a 70 year-old mama’s boy to find.”