Wayne Tisdale was walking Wink, his golden retriever, when he first heard the commotion. Thump. Tha-thump. Thump. Thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Thump. Wink tensed up, barking like a maniac as Wayne struggled with his leash.

An ’83 Impala approached at a crawl. The rap music was so loud he could feel the beat in his chest: Thump. Tha-thump. Thump. Thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Thump.

Oh, my God, Wayne thought. This is the sound of my death.

When the window rolled down, Wayne dove headfirst into a rosebush. Wink escaped, lurching around the corner.

The car rambled on. Probably had a good laugh, Wayne thought, removing thorns from his face. Stupid punks.

“Wink!” Wayne yelled. “Come back here! They were just trying to scare us you silly coward!”

Wayne turned the corner. No sign of Wink anywhere. But the Impala was heading right for him.

“This your dog, Mr. Tisdale?” Angela Copeland, one of his best students, asked from the Impala, cackling cruelly. He knew he’d never live this one down.