I hurried barefoot along the second-floor walkway and started down the stairs. In the parking lot below, the tops of the cars were wet with dew. All the cars except Dr. Gao's sleek black Corvette convertible, that is - he always kept it covered with a blue canvas tarp. My dad taught me to drive on the Serengeti Plains when I was seven years old. Since then, I'd gotten to drive a lot of different types of vehicles, including that rickety old bus, but I'd never been behind the wheel of a car like Dr. Gao's Corvette. I would have given almost anything to take it out for a spin.

When I reached the bottom step, a loud, sharp sound rang out. It sounded like a gunshot, but I figured it was probably just a car backfiring somewhere in the distance. After all, this was Houston, Texas, not some war-torn Third World country. I sat down and quickly began to pull on my shin guards, socks, and shoes. A vehicle started up somewhere nearby. It sounded like a gasoline-powered pickup or SUV, maybe even a minivan. I glanced out at the parking lot, but all the cars and trucks and vans appeared to be empty. A moment later, the engine revved. I looked around again. There were no lights, there was no motion in the parking lot or out on the highway. The vehicle roared away, and its sound quickly faded into the distance. I saw nothing.

That's strange, I thought. I glanced at my sports watch. It was 6:18.

Once I'd laced up my shoes, I hurried around the corner of the building and looked up to see that the red neon sign read "No Vacancy." The Sundogs and the team parents had rented every room in the small motel. Since Uncle Dane was in Europe on a book-signing tour, I'd gone to the tournament with the Gaos. On the drive from Dallas to Houston, Pow Wow's mom had said that all the motels and hotels within thirty miles of the playing field area were completely booked. The Lone Star Invitational was one of the largest and most important soccer tournaments in the country. I wished my parents could be there to see me play.

Dad's a doctor, and Mom's an architect. They work for an international relief organization. Their job is to build hospitals and clinics in remote areas with poor medical care. Ever since I was born in that treehouse, we never stayed anywhere longer than two years. When it was time for me to start junior high school, my folks moved to India and I came to live with my uncle in Dallas. I like Uncle Dane a lot, but I miss my parents.

As I passed the motel office, I looked in through the picture window to see a burly man standing behind the counter. He was reading a newspaper. He noticed me walking by as he took a sip from the steaming white Styrofoam cup in his hand. I waved. He smiled, put down his coffee, and waved back.

A big white van with two long ladders strapped to the top pulled in behind me. The headlights went off, and a Hispanic man stepped out. The sign on the van's door read "Escondido Building Contractors." The burly man from the motel office walked out, shook the Hispanic man's hand, then pointed at something above the picture window.

Juggling my ball from knee to knee, I approached the high wooden fence that stood between the motel and the soccer fields. Because some of the roads in this part of Houston had been closed for construction, it was a twenty-minute drive from the motel to the playing field area parking lot. It only took a few seconds - and a lot of agility - to jump the fence. Pow Wow Gao, Ian Crow, and I had found this shortcut yesterday morning.

I kicked the ball over. When it landed on the other side, I heard a muffled thud. It wasn't the sound a ball hitting grass should have made. That's funny. I slipped the shoulder strap of my team bag over my head, then ran at the fence and jumped. I caught the tops of a couple of the rough wooden planks with my fingertips then, feet scrambling, pulled myself up.

Twenty-four soccer fields lay spread out before me like an immense green lawn - a lawn with forty-eight regulation goals. When I looked down, I saw my soccer ball lying there on the grass. A red stain covered one of the white patches. I couldn't figure out how it'd gotten there. I pulled myself up further and got ready to drop my team bag.

When I looked down, I saw something I didn't expect to see. A red-haired man lay beside the fence. His eyes were closed. His face was pale. He was still wearing the clothes he'd had on yesterday afternoon. For a moment, I thought he might be sleeping. Then I noticed the bloody patch on his forehead. I knew he must be unconscious. Or worse.

My heart started beating fast. I pitched down my team bag then cleared the top of the fence and landed next to Coach Ryan. Blood was flowing from his head wound. I remembered the loud bang I'd heard. The coach had been shot!

I knelt beside Coach Ryan and put my face close to his. He was breathing, but only barely. I could smell smoke in his clothes and in his hair. It was not the smoke from a campfire or a fireplace, and it wasn't the smoke from a cigarette. He smelled like those men in the Caribbean who play checkers in the park while they puff on big cigars.

While I called out, "Help! Help!" I reached into my bag, pitched my fake knife and the stage blood packets onto the grass, then pulled out a clean towel. With one hand, I pressed the towel to the wound to stop the bleeding. With the other, I grabbed my mobile phone and dialed 9-1-1.