The ladder fell, knocked over the coat rack, and dropped the vent causing—

“MANUEL?”

Frank heaved himself into the vent and scrambled along as fast as he could just as footsteps thundered along the hallway in the opposite direction; he heard the closet door opened, and another door shut, but most of all heard, “MANUEL? MANUEL!  C’mere, ‘ou scrubby little Spanish git”—

A second pair of feet moved in the opposite direction as Frank crawled ever more, the scent of food in his nostrils—

“Manuel,” growled an angry voice, “We have a guest at the front door, wonderin’ if he could eat a bit early, when ‘ou smash up this ruddy cupboard, and leave open the back door again, unlocked!”

“Vut! I ‘ave never, ever, done such a ving—ah!  Let go of me ear!”

After checking for personnel, Frank rolled out through an open vent into the kitchen, his mind racing against time.  So Juve is here, he thought, and paused, contemplating the situation.  A shoe grated against the polished floor, and Frank spun on the spot, his heart thudding, fearing it wasn’t the two men—

Juve was staring at him.  Briefly brushing past him, he turned on all the stoves, grabbed paper towels and stuffed them into the grates.  Fire rose, but Juve, possibly trying to ascertain a victory (or losing his marbles, thought Frank), grasped a bottle of brandy and poured it on the grate, causing the flames to leap over the stove and catch onto a cabinet, which leapt onto another, and another, setting off a fire alarm after no more than twenty seconds; Frank moved to the front, desperate to leave but Juve roughly threw him to the ground and kicked him, drawing a weapon—

“Who the hell—Oi!  Oi!  Get the ruddy hell out now, ‘ou low life junkie— RAZZERS!  Oh god, help! Manuel, phone the razzers and fire department while I grab ‘im”—

Juve was off faster than a bullet, his gun in his pocket; he skidded out of the kitchen and disappeared through the front door; Frank tried to move as the heat increased above him and footsteps pounded but—

Frank felt himself lifted into the air, guided through the flames to the front door, and thrown, head first, outside.  Tumbling out onto the ground, Frank tried to rise to his feet again but he was smacked in the face by the man and fell back to the ground.  He tried to stand again but this time was picked up and pinned against a wall, a hand to his throat.  Not the first time, thought Frank.

“Oi, thank god you’re here, policemen!  This boyo has just set fire to me shop”—

“Get down, ya no good shite!”

Frank felt his strength draining as the police raced to the pair of them, then—

Two shots released the hand from Frank’s throat.  The butcher fell away like a discarded coat.  The boy turned and he saw Juve standing there, the gun from earlier smoking, in his hand—

“No! No, Juve, please no!”  He grabbed the butcher, and held him there, the blood blossoming out of the man’s mouth and side like little flowers.  Stunned, he felt a rush of regret, so sorry for the trouble he’d caused.  When he glanced up, he saw Juve preparing to shoot him as well—

Another voice cut in.  “Put the gun down, laddie, put it down!”  Frank and Juve saw the police officers standing there, their weapons drawn, but Juve’s right arm was still locked, the pistol still aimed at Frank.  His eyes hardened, the years of independence and ghetto lifestyle appearing more apparent by the second.  His finger seized up, the middle finger that hadn’t even touched but murdered countless others, with motives that Juve probably didn’t even have—

For what seemed to be an eon finished in two seconds; he dropped the gun,  and turned and ran just as Manuel came sprinting out the back of the burning restaurant, coughing, face streaked with tears of rage.

At that point, Frank fainted.  All of his work, just to feed his family, finished, for nothing.  All of the dangers he’d faced just to adapt to society…for what?  He wondered as his vision faded.