I race across the backyard, at this point my biggest concern is dodging the dog poop. I reach the privacy fence that separates our yard from the neighbour's, six feet of pressure-treated lumber stands between me and that which lies beyond. In my mind I scale the obstacle like a ninja-assassin-Seal-team-member. In reality it takes me far too long to haul myself to the top, where my boot snags on a board and I tumble into the shrub on the other side.

I free myself from the vegetation, get to my feet and run headlong between two houses. My heart pounds in my chest and adrenaline surges through my veins. I'm scared, I'm excited, I'm wonderfully alive. I'm also panting like a dog. I really need to get more exercise.

Two men are shouting expletives in the street. I'm essentially in an alley between two homes, I flatten myself against the side of one house. Absolute stealth is my goal. I remain concealed in the shadows and listen.

"Drop the fucking gun!"

"Fuck you!"

"Swear to god, I will kill you where you stand!"

Still sequestered and out-of-sight, I listen to the post-modern Shakespearean dialog which now contains far less of the Queen's English and much more urban vernacular interspersed with racial epithets. I can't contain my curiosity any further. I peer around the corner to get a glimpse of what all the fuss is about. However, I'm still in shadow and further hidden by a leafy hedge at the corner of the house.

There are two men in the middle of the formerly quiet street, yelling their heads off in the soft glow of the high-pressure sodium vapour street light. One is wearing a dark hoodie and baseball cap, his hood is drawn about his head obscuring his face. His pants ride far beneath his waist. He's holding a handgun sideways and waving it wildly as he exercises his free speech rights at the top of his lungs. Oddly, he is exactly what I was expecting to see.

The other man is a bit of a surprise. He's only clothed from the waist down, green camouflage cargo shorts and a large pair of hunting boots. He has shoulder length, dirty blond hair that curls wildly. His upper body is heavily inked. Left arm is a full sleeve that integrates with the large tribal work on his chest. He's holding a compound bow, fully drawn - even from my vantage point I can see the broadhead gleaming in the light.

I decide to stay hidden, I have visions of my corpse bristling with arrows and riddled with bullet holes should I step from the shadows and surprise them. I have second thoughts about my desire to check out the commotion that I am witnessing. A voice in my head tells me to sneak quietly back to my house, have some tea, go to bed. I'm about to do the reasonable thing when another voice says, "Do you hear sirens?" Somewhere deep inside of me is a four year old who is captivated by sirens, therefore so am I.

In the distance growing louder is the wail of sirens. I assume it's a direct response to Kate's 911 call. The guy in the hoodie hears them too and he bolts. Clearly he wants nothing to do with the police.

Unfortunately he heads directly at the alley between the houses I currently occupy. I freeze. I push back against the wall, trying to meld with it, disappear entirely but I can't. I hear his rapid footfalls pounding across the concrete driveway. I hold my breath.

There's a flash of movement around the corner and for some reason I stick my foot out. Hoodie hoodlum sprawls head-first onto the lawn, he grunts as he crashes to the turf. Before I can react, camo dude dives on top of him. It's like watching two feral animals go at each other. They cuss and grapple locked in a primal battle of supremacy. I remain unnoticed while they try to kill each other.

Hoodie somehow gains the upper hand, he's atop of his opponent and I see a flash of steel. He holds a knife high over his head, intent on plunging it into the soft flesh of the other guy. My body takes two steps out of the shadow and it brings the large Maglite crashing down on Hoodie's wrist. He howls and the knife goes flying. My arm comes back in the other direction bringing the hard aluminum tube straight into Hoodie's face.

It's enough to turn the tide and Camo dude throws Hoodie off, gets up and starts putting the boots to him. Hoodie has no fight left in him, but Camo doesn't care. I don't think either of them has really noticed me still, both are caught up in the moment.

Two cops come around the corner; all flashlights and guns, yelling. I throw my hands in the air instantly.

*****

I'm in handcuffs, sitting on a curb next to Camo. This is a new first for me. The cuffs are cold and hard and they pinch. I don't care much for them.

People peer out from their windows and porches all up and down the avenue. This is not the image I want my neighbours to associate with me. A clean-cut guy, in plaid pyjama pants and a white t-shirt that says Wo0t. That's bad enough already, but I finished the ensemble with the rattiest pair of beat up, old hiking boots on the planet. I also went sockless, so this weeks fashion disaster award if definitely going to me.

Of course, I'm paired up on the curb with Captain Camo, we look like accomplices and if the cops were fashion police they would be arresting us both on the spot.

Captain Camo doesn't give a shit about fashion though. He spits blood out onto the the road and curses under his breath. My mind has finally caught up with my body. I have regrets. We have both given statements. Camo has relayed the sequence of events that lead to the fracas in the alley.

Hoodie broke into his garage, looks like he was going to steal gas. It's happening so frequently now that I'm not in any way surprised. Camo's dog barked and he went to investigate. He surprised the guy in the garage when he flicked on the light, Hoodie pointed a gun and Camo ducked back inside, but his dog, Ranger, went after the guy.

Hoodie runs out of the garage, but can't outrun Ranger, so he turns and fires three shots. The dog goes down. Camo grabs his bow off a rack in the garage, nocks an arrow and flies after Hoodie, he catches him in the street a few doors down. I witnessed the rest.

"I should've shot the bastard." He says.

"Good thing you didn't." One of the cops is now standing over us. He reads us the riot act on vigilantism, how I could be charge with assault and some kind of interference. Camo gets it worse, he gets a similar litany of warnings plus the cop tells him he will be cited for improper storage of the bow, which will also be confiscated.

"He shot my fucking dog." He retorts.

The cop just shrugs and hands him a yellow chit of paper and returns to his cruiser while his partner removes our cuffs.

The cops pull away with Hoodie in the back seat, his hood is back, I can see his all too young face. His lip and cheek are swollen from where I hit him with the flashlight. I see no regret, no remorse at all, just contempt. As they pass us Camo gives Hoodie the finger. Hoodie just stares back. I get the feeling that if they run into each other again, more blood will flow. For a second his eyes flick to mine and I quickly look away.

"Shit, I gotta go bury my dog." Camo says.

I feel bad for the guy. Someone totally violates his rights, kills his dog and the cops practically treat him like he's the criminal. I know the local constabulary are under a lot of pressure these days, between the increase in crimes like this and the cut-backs within their ranks. We are all feeling the pinch these days. But they certainly didn't win any hearts and minds tonight.

"I'll give you a hand."

"Thanks." He replies and offers his hand. "I'm Jake. You kinda saved my ass back there."

"No problem." I shake his hand. It's rough like emery cloth and he's got a grip like a vise. I try to adjust my grip to match, but it's too late, my fingers fold together under the pressure. First impression failure.  "I'm Connor."

"You from the neighbourhood?"

"Yeah." I motion over my shoulder. "One street over."

"What the hell were you doing in the alley?" I realize I'm in pyjamas, with a flashlight, lurking in an alley. Second impression failure, now I'm some kind of pervy peeping tom.

"I heard gun shots. I don't know what I was thinking really. It's my neighbourhood, you know, my kid plays here. I don't want it to be a place that people think they can come and disrespect. I think I got more than I bargained for though."

"I hear ya. Sometimes I walk Ranger through the neighbourhood at night, just to keep my eye on things. Lately, I've spooked a few jokers - I know what they are up to - driving up and down the streets just a bit too slow, eyeballing houses, sizing things up. I'll light 'em up with my Streamlight, that usually gets them moving. I bet I haven't seen a cop cruise through here in two months. Damn pigs."

I feel Jake's disdain for authority is on par with his dislike for the unsavory characters who seem to be finding their way into our little piece of the city. I can't say that I'm in disagreement with the sentiment on both accounts.

"Let's give Ranger a proper burial. C'mon." He says.

He walks away and I notice his back is an ink-laden canvas. More tribal swoops and swirls surround the word PERSIST running from shoulder to shoulder. He's shaped like a vee, from his shoulders to his waist. He's seems to be all muscle - not bulk - but ripped. I don't know if it's awe or envy I feel. I make a silent promise to get to the gym.

As I follow behind Jake, my eyes float upward, it's a moonless night and the skies are clear. The stars are abundant and bright and they twinkle like little jewels. I fixate on a group of stars that appear to hover above the end of the street, three brilliant, distant suns stretched out horizontally forming a belt. Orion's belt. Orion, the hunter - and in his outstretched arm, a bow.

The universe is a curious place.

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