"Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou," he says, but I walk away anyway. What's he going to do?

I should have remembered. If Tommy had a single knife, he had five or ten.

I couldn't have even told you why I took the one I did, or why I expected him to roll over like a pussy and just take it, take the fact that I was walking out with it. Okay, I can tell you about that last. Tommy was a pussy. He was probably fifteen when he stopped crying when he lost a battle.

"Holy cow," Bradley said. "That things not legal. How'd you get it?"

Tommy held up the double edged dagger. The thing had a blade a foot long, and the metalwork on the hilt and guard was fine stuff, none of your overblown dragon heads and real crystal jewels. He moved to put it back in the sheath, which in itself was probably two hundred dollars of leather work. "I have my ways." He was trying to be cool and mysterious, but he wasn't good at it.

"Bullcrap." Bradley shook his head. I was staying out of it, but, man, I wanted to know where that thing came from.

"Can I?" I said, and held out my hand. Tommy sheathed it, but handed the dagger and sheath over. I looked at the leather, and it wasn't new. It had slight stains and the backside showed wear, as if it had hung at someone's side for a long time. Tommy shifted where he sat on his bed, and I leaned on his closet door, looking cooler than he ever could, and drew the dagger.

It sang in my hand, and I saw things. Every stupid game we'd played with miniatures and dice, every character we'd role played and drawn or mocked up on the computer--everything, but real, completely real. I shoved the blade back into the sheath, and looked at the handle, panting.

"Jimmy, man, are you okay?" Bradley asked, but I looked at Tommy.

There was nothing in his face to make me think he knew what had just happened. He was looking at me as if he were disgusted. "Geeze, I knew you liked knives, but you don't have to come in your pants like that."

"What did you pay for it?" I asked, trying to act like nothing had happened, looking at the twisting spirals of the hilt, decoration that made it fit your hand (my hand), gave a good grip. "How much?"

"I'm not selling it, you perv."

"Who are you calling a perv?" I said, but it was reflex.

Tommy held out his hand. "Hand it back."

"No." There was no way I was giving this beauty back to him. I was going to take it home, take it out of the sheath, and see what it showed me.

"Don't fool around," Tommy said.

"Come on, man," Bradley said. "Give him his knife."

I shook my head, and turned away. It was mine, meant for me. I wrapped my hand around the hilt and it sang. I started to walk out the door.

"Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou," I heard Tommy say.

"Don't!" Bradley yelled.

The next thing I knew, pain spread out, burning through my chest, tearing across my back, and finally down my left arm.

Bradley was still yelling. "What the heck did you do that for? What is wrong with you?"

I pulled the dagger from its sheath, and went where it took me as I fell.