The alley ended, disgorging him into a narrow road running parallel with the waterfront. He was under the big Alaska Way viaduct. The sound of traffic whined by above him even at this late hour, sometime after three in the morning. He took a hard right, considered flattening himself against a wall behind yet another dumpster and waiting for the Disassemblers to pound on by, then discarded the idea. He could think about accepting the beating, about stopping and hoping the trolls would miss him, but he was just too fragging scared. And by all the spirits and totems, he had a right to be scared. What fifteen-year-old wouldn’t be with maybe a ton of trolls on his butt?