• Nyx) “Figlia, go down the street and get a gollon of milk for breakfast in the morning.” I awoke to his words. “Sì, o Padre. Shall I go now?” I asked, immediately awake. “Please.” I got up, put on a thin pair of pants and a tank top, and got the few bills my father had in his hand. I walked outside of our poor house and down the street to the small market. On my way there, I heard a boy call from behind me, “Ehi, tu!” Stupidly, I turned around. There was the boy who called out to me. He jogged up to me. “Hey, bambina, wanna talk a bit?” the leader asked. “No, grazie. I must go now.” Laughing, they followed me. One whistled and two more came out from the alley behind me. They surrounded me. “Please, let me go!” I tried to run. The leader grabbed me. “A fighter!” He laughed. “Well, well, well, I wanna have fun with this one.” I grabbed the knife on my belt strap. Flicking it open, I poked him with it. He let go of me and backed away. “Let me go!” They advanced onto me. I slashed out, once, twice. On the third time, he grabbed my arm and twisted it. I gasped but stubbornly held onto the knife. He twisted it more. I dropped the knife. Instinctively, I grabbed his arm, jumped, turned in the air, and landed hard on my back. It forced the breath out of me and made him hit his head hard on the concrete. Has friends immediately rushed foreward and grabbed me. One grabbed my arms and twisted them behind me. Another grabbed my hair and started threatening me in Italian, “Stai per morire. Stiamo per ucciderti, cagna!” The leader got up and slapped me across the face. I whimpered. “Lasciami in pace! Per favore!” He smiled and hit me again. “Leave her alone!” A boy, about 16, 2 years older than me, ran up. He had beautiful green eyes, soft, wavy brown hair, and a light tan. He spoke in English with an American accent. Again, he warned, “Leave her alone.” The leader of the gang turned to him and laughed. “You want the cagna? Come and get her!” Then, he pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. “No!” I shouted. The boy holding my hair jerked it, bringing me to tears. The American boy, undeterred by the blade, advanced on the gang leader. The leader slashed and the American dodged it. Again the gang leader swung the blade, but the American dodged it again, this time punching the gang leader in the face. He staggered and stabbed out at the American. The blade pierced his stomach. “No!” I cried, kicking the shin of the boy holding my arms and elbowing the boy holding my hair. They both let go of me and I ran to the American. He was bleeding badly, but still got up. Incredulous, the gang leader stared at him. The American punched him in the face and knocked him out. Scared, the other boys ran and dissapeared. The American collapsed. I ran and knelt next to him. “Hold still, please. You’re wounded,” I whispered. “I’ve been hurt worse than this, don’t worry about me.” He sat up. He ignored my protests, instead saying, “Are you alright?” I nodded. “What is your name?” He aked. “My name is Nyx della Notte. I am known as the Night Child around here. Yours?” I couldn't help but ask, even though he was severely wounded. “My name is Shane.” He sighed, then fell against me. I held his head in my lap and started shouting, “Padre, fratello, nessuno! Per favore, aiutateci!” A neighbor, Isabella, heard my calls. She ran to us. “Che cos'è? Oh mio dio! Aspetta, chiamerò la polizia.” She called her father and he summoned the police. I kept them away from the American until I knew they meant no harm. They took him into the paramedic's van and I followed.