He'd seen the President speak before. On television.

Riding his bike down the grassy hill, his dark hair blowing back in the wind, he pumped his twelve-year-old legs faster to get his bike zooming. The President, who his father - a cop who knew these things - told him is a good man, was gonna be driving by soon. Behind him, his best friend's voice carried on the autumn Texas breeze.

"Slow down," Horace panted, barely keeping up.

"Can't," he said; he wasn't that sure Horace heard him. "Not too often you get to see a real hero."

Horace pushed harder to catch up. "Ronny Butterfield, you're gonna be the death of me," he muttered.

His bike hit gravel, and Ronny sped up. If Horace couldn't keep up, that was his own problem; the President's motorcade would pass them by, if they didn't hurry. The sound of the crowd was already licking at his eardrums, faint but buzzing like the playing card in his spokes. He leaned forward, gaining speed as Horace pedaled a few yards behind.

Ronny got there first, of course, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. "I can't see nothin'," he complained as Horace pulled up beside him.

"Then get up off your bike and stand up instead," Horace said, standing on his toes. "Ain't like he's here yet, anyway."

"I know, but . . . " He sighed and tried to find a clear spot in the throng. "We're barely gonna be able to see him when he does get here."

"I don't know why you wanna see him anyway," Horace said. "Northerners aren't nothin' but trouble."

"You just quit it, Horace," Ronny said, as stern as he could muster. "My daddy says he's a good man."

"Yeah, well, good or not, he ain't here yet." Horace looked up at Ronny, squinting. "Since when've you been able to ride so fast, anyhow?"

Smirking, Ronny said, "It's not me what's gettin' faster, it's you what's gettin' slower."

"Well I think you're on some sort of Commie drugs what make you stronger," Horace huffed, his half-smile letting Ronny know he was only joking. "An' that's why your daddy likes Kennedy."

"You're talking nonsense, boy," Ronny said, pushing him a little. The buzz of the crowd intensified, and they both stopped paying attention to each other. A slight hole appeared, and Ronny leaned forward to get a better view.

"That's him," Horace said; though he had to nearly yell to get his voice heard over the crowd, to Ronny his voice sounded hushed, reverential. He glanced at Horace, surprised, before the cheering alerted him to the President's proximity.

It really was Kennedy, and Ronny's grip on his bicycle handlebar tightened in anticipation as the open-top car swooped closer. He was right there, with the First Lady next to him and a goodly number of dark-suited Secret Service agents running alongside. Grinning, Ronny squirmed for a better chance to see them.

Then, a shot was fired.