We used to take the same near-empty train home from school every day ' me and four others, loud with boredom and confidence. One afternoon we decided to pick on Leslie, the quiet red-haired kid who always kept his head down. There was no plan, just a rush of cruelty that fed on itself. We grabbed him, laughing, while the train slowed for our stop. Someone pulled at his clothes. Someone else held the door. By the time the platform came into view, he was panicking, covering himself with his hands. The doors opened. We jumped out. The doors slammed shut behind us. The train pulled away with him inside it. We ran off howling with laughter, carrying his clothes like trophies. We joked about it for weeks. I've never laughed about it since. And I know he never stopped feeling it.