Bobby walked ahead of me, leading Mr. Wallace on a dog leash. My head couldn’t keep still. My eyes scanned every inch of the opaque horizon, convinced someone would see the strange glow walking through the woods, but no one came up to us. Not a single person had seen us as we lead Mr. Jones’s prized albino peacock out of his gate and calmly marched him into the woods. Everything had been so easy; finding the leash, fitting the collar around Mr. Wallace’s slender neck, keeping him quiet as the old gate silently swung open. The nagging voice in the back of my mind wouldn’t shut up, frantically whispering all the ways we could be caught and punished. Yet not a soul passed us.

We were supposed to meet Bobby’s brother’s gang at 9 some 500 steps into the woods. I prayed we were almost there, that we could get this over with as soon as possible. Bobby never told me what his brother needed the peacock for, and I don’t think Bobby knew, either. But Greg was Bobby’s idol, and whatever Greg said was law. Despite the constant beatings and verbal abuse Greg inflicted on his baby brother, Bobby always did as he was told and never complained.

Part of my anxiety was because I didn’t like Greg. I never had. I had been best friends with Bobby since we were three when my family first moved to the neighborhood. 6 months later, my guinea pig was missing. 2 weeks after that, I found her mangled corpse buried under a pile of dirt in Bobby’s backyard. A hastily prepared makeshift grave of sorts. Bobby said the guinea pig was Greg’s, that Greg had bought it at the pet store and it had tragically choked while eating dinner. Dark blood stains coated what was left of her smooth white fur, and her head had been twisted all the way around, so I knew his story was bullshit. But I didn’t say anything.

I knew Greg wasn’t a good guy. I knew his gang was even worse. So why, I had to ask myself, was I walking in the woods at night behind a stolen peacock? I should be home, falling asleep in my warm, soft bed, cocooned in my homemade quilt that smelt of peppermint, like my grandmother. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been caught, that we weren’t going to be caught, because I knew something bad was going to happen anyway. To be honest, I would rather have been caught and forced to face Mr. Jones’s wrath than deliver the bird to the gang.

A light flickered in the distance. I couldn’t tell if it was the beam from a flashlight or the glow of a feeble fire, but it tied my guts in wriggling knots nonetheless. We marched, Bobby, Mr. Wallace, and me in silence toward the light. My muscles ached from the hike and the cold, and my fingers, toes, and nose were completely numb.The flickering light slowly took the amorphous form of a rough fire, and I foolishly thought about warming myself by the flames. Soon, six silhouettes emerged from the shadow of the woods, three sitting, three standing. I could hear mumbled swear words, gruff curses against the bitter cold and why they had to do this tonight. Then, someone shouted.

“Here they are!”

The squirming bundle of knots in my stomach jumped to my throat. No turning back now.

The six silhouettes were now standing, forming a semicircle around the fire. Bobby handed the leash over to Greg, who smirked while the others ominously chuckled.

“Go home, kid,” Greg ordered. A small wave of relief rushed through my body, nearly bringing feeling back to my fingers, toes, and nose.

“We want to stay,” Bobby said, crossing his fists in defiance. Immediately the wave of relief turned ice cold, and a violent shiver ran up my spine. Some of the gang laughed. Greg let out a whooping guffaw, easily the loudest of the six.

“No way. Go home right now, twerp.”

“No. We stole the stupid bird for you. I think we deserve to stay.”

If I could have moved even my pinky finger I would have been strangling Bobby. What did he think he was doing? We didn’t want to stay. He knew I didn’t even want to help him in the first place, and here I was, risking frostbite and pneumonia so he could prove his worth to his brother, who would always think of him as lower than his own steaming s***. Why did he think now was a good time to defy Greg’s orders? The least I could hope for was Greg would punt both of our asses halfway home.

“All right, you can stay. If you think you can handle it.”

“Psh, we can handle anything.”

His fake confidence invited another round of hearty laughter from the other side of the fire.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t get in the way. And no crying to Mom. That means you, too, Reynolds. Or else.” As if rehearsed, when Greg threatened, “Or else,” the smooth click of a switchblade echoed in the silence. I couldn’t see who was holding the knife, which only made the situation more terrifying.

“We won’t.”

“Good.”

The tension had crescendoed and decrescendoed so suddenly, I didn’t even notice the pack of cigarettes being offered to me, or that Bobby was already happily puffing away, acting like he smoked a pack a day. Neither of us had smoked in our life, but I knew a lot of adults who did, and, given the stress of the situation, I decided a quick drag wasn’t enough to condemn me. I had to act cool, for mine and Bobby’s skins, so when the smoke swirled in my esophagus for the first time, blocking off all oxygen, spinning my brain like a top, making my already queasy stomach somersault, and pushed tears into my dry, burning eyes, I didn’t cough. I didn’t even move. I tried forcing the toxic air through my nostrils, but that only made me more lightheaded, so I did the sensible thing and took another small breath of ash. I felt a little better after that, and I pretended the embers were warming me up on the inside.

Next, a green bottle with a disgusting brown liquid was passed around. This I refused, but Bobby tried to down the whole thing in one repulsive gulp. Someone hit him on the back of the head, causing him to choke and splutter alcohol everywhere. Everyone laughed. I continued to smoke, regrettably getting more used to the feeling of smoke in my airways.

We didn’t do anything then. The leash had been tied to a small branch, and Mr. Wallace strutted a few feet away. I couldn’t help but admire the way the moon reflected off his pure white feathers, creating an illuminated aura around him. He was Mr. Jones’s pride and joy, and understandably so, though no one seemed to like the bird, or Mr. Jones. What actually annoyed people was Mr. Jones’s pride for Mr. Wallace. Single, childless, and middle-aged, Mr. Jones didn’t have a lot going for him until he bought Mr. Wallace and started training him for special bird pageants. It was weird. But no one said anything, at least not to Mr. Jones’s face. I thought Mr. Wallace looked happy, being almost free in the woods, but that could have been the lack of oxygen in my brain.

Finally, someone broke the silence. I wish they hadn’t.

“So, are we going to do this thing, or what?”

“Yeah, c’mon, Greg. I’m gonna freeze to death if we don’t get started soon.”

“Shut up, Patrick.”

“Did you guys remember the tools?”

“Yeah, I got ‘em right here.”

“Let’s do this.”

Bobby had moved closer to the gang, leaving me alone with my cigarette. He seemed just as enthusiastic as the others, but I knew he was just faking it to impress Greg.

One of the guys untied the leash and began reining in Mr. Wallace. He obediently followed. It was a surreal sight: one short boy, three tall ones, a painfully white peacock, and three more bodies, their faces obscured by shadow, but their torsos and legs ablaze in the light of the fickle flames. They stood there doing nothing for what felt like an eternity. I wish it had been.

Then, like magic, a pair of steel slip-joint pliers appeared, followed by a black necktie and a baseball bat. The gang spread out around the fire in a circle, so now I as included. Mr. Wallace looked confused and frightened at the new formation, realizing too late there was no chance for escape. Someone threw the necktie around Mr. Wallace’s neck and pulled the ends together very slowly, almost ritualistically. A strangled cry wheezed from Mr. Wallace’s beak as the necktie grew tighter and tighter, strangling him. I could feel the necktie around my own throat, constricting my airways, different than the way the smoke had choked me. The person eventually released the necktie, but then Mr. Wallace was shuffled to the next guy, who repeated the same slow strangle. I stepped away so the bird wouldn’t come to me. Around the circle Mr. Wallace waddled, each person taking a turn to strangle the bird. I couldn’t see if Bobby took part in this, and, quite frankly, I was glad I couldn’t see him. After Mr. Wallace had gone around the circle twice, someone raised the pliers. A horror washed over my face as I realized what the pliers were for. Simultaneously, as the necktie tightened for an eighteenth time around his neck, the pliers snapped its teeth on one of his pristine tail feathers and yanked it off. The strangled wheezes coming in small gasps from the bird turned to sheer squawks of terror. Again, Mr. Wallace was passed around the circle, faster this time, everyone taking a turn to either strangle him or pull out a feather. Slowly, beads of crimson blood began appearing on Mr. Wallace’s backside. I was frozen there, forced by my own petrified terror to stare at the poor creature being tortured to death. I thought I would faint, but then the ritual sped up. Upon Mr. Wallace’s sixth time around the circle, the necktie was used to tie his feet together. Immediately, the boys were upon him with more pliers, the switchblade, and the baseball bat. My ears went deaf. I wish my eyes had gone blind. I watched feathers fly everywhere, some with blood splattered on them. Sometimes I would see part of Mr. Wallace between two hands or a pair of legs. The baseball bat swung up and down with inhumane ferocity. I stared at the frenzy, unable to turn away, yet unwilling to stand by, useless.

Finally, the frenzy subsided. The boys moved away, wicked smiles on their faces, pleased with what they had done. Mr. Wallace was nothing. Nothing recognizable, at least. He was a pile of blood and guts, with splintered fragments of bone and some white feathers for decoration. I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt it growing, a burning sensation in my stomach. Up it grew, through my chest, singeing my throat, until finally it spewed from my mouth, landing with a sickening splash on the ground.