I was expecting a tougher fight when I told Mom I had to go out later that afternoon, but all it took was a slight twist of the truth for her to send me off with her blessings. After all, she doesn't want me to miss Mr. Sunderland's recovery classes in the afternoon, and neither do I.

I don't know why, but that monstrous guy who was supposed to be my high-school nightmare that first day of classes turned into something that feels like an ally. And truth be told, I like it better that way. He got rid of Rude! If that doesn't make him an ally, I don't know what else would.

Even though this is Maple Heights and everything is jam-packed into a handful of blocks, I still leave the house twenty minutes early in account of my new general pace, yet I still find myself in the address in the paper with ten minutes to spare.

It's a small house that retreats deep into a long front yard surrounded in tall, woven wire fences with two lines of barbed wire on top. A wooden arch holds the only apparent way inside or out, a sturdy gate made of the same wood. To the side, there's a white doorbell. I lift a finger to press it, but I hesitate. Maybe it's too early? Or maybe I just don't want to. This doesn't look like the safest place on earth, and ally or not, Mr. Sunderland is still a scary-looking fellow. A flashback from my fight with Rude comes to mind, when Mr. Sunderland grabbed me by my shirt collar and ragdolled me six feet backwards with one hand.

I may not be in safe hands if he somehow decides to turn against me. Just saying.

"Mr. Foster. Glad you made it," Mr. Sunderland's voice is unmistakable, even through the dubious quality of the intercom built into the doorbell, which by the way, I didn't press. He might have seen me arrive from a window or something. "Do come in, please. The gate is unlocked."

I push my hesitation out of the way and open the gate as instructed, and Mr. Sunderland comes out the front door as I'm closing behind me. I'm almost ready to soil my pants when I realize he's actually smiling.

"Welcome," he says, beckoning me to join him by the door. "I hope you didn't have problems finding the place?"

"Not at all," I reply. It's Maple Heights. If you wander around for five minutes you see everything there's to be seen anyway.

"Sorry to make you come on such short notice," he says, and starts walking around the house to the backyard. I follow him in silence, waiting for him to explain what this is all about. "There's something I want to show you, if you don't mind a short drive."

At this point, I have no choice but to be honest. "I don't mean to offend you, Mr. Sunderland, but all of this is kind of sketchy."

He actually laughs out loud at my comment and keeps walking. "You certainly have a point, Mr. Foster. This is highly unethical for me to do, but I'll make sure it's worth your time."

"I'm already here, so I might as well just trust you."

"That's the spirit."

There's a blue truck parked in the backyard, overlooking a massive field of tilled soil that stretches as far as the eye reaches on both sides of a dirt road. So Mr. Sunderland is also a farmer. Or so it seems.

He pulls out a big bundle of keys and unlocks the vehicle. "Do you need help to get in?"

"I'll manage."

A minute later, I'm sitting in the truck next to Mr. Sunderland, who's still wearing that foreign smile. It's like he's a different person. At some point we drive past a few farmers. Mr. Sunderland pokes his head out the window and shouts at them to join him at the barn; that he's brought someone he wants them to meet. That being me, I'm now more confused than ever.

"I'm ready to ask what's going on here," I say once his head is back inside the vehicle.

"I know. For now, welcome to Utopia Ranch."

I fix my eyes on him to see if he's joking about that name, but I can't read his half-smile. Maybe he's enjoying my confusion, who knows. Not like naming the ranch answers any of my questions either way.

There are two houses in the distance, and what seems to be a massive barn. I can see people is gathering around a tractor. Mr. Sunderland parks the vehicle next to it and jumps down, greeting everyone around.

"Come on, John," Mr. Sunderland calls, leaning against the tractor. "Don't be a stranger and introduce yourself."

'Hesitant' seems to be the word for today, and that's exactly how I get off the truck. I count eight people including Mr. Sunderland, plus three more that are jogging in this direction from the fields. If this is some kind of ambush, I'm definitely toast, but regardless of that, the easy smiles of all these people somehow look familiar, like I'm just about to hang out with Alex's friends.

A short and rather round person inches closer to me and takes me in, like I'm a new species of animal he's never seen before. "Yo' boss. Are you telling me this is THE John that beat Rude in a one-on-one?"

Well, of course Mr. Sunderland is the boss around here. It only makes sense. He laughs a few hearty thunders. "This is indeed the fabled John Foster."

At this, the whole crowd walks over and greets me like I'm some sort of hero who just saved them from a Tsunami or something.

"I imagined you were taller!" someone says, patting my shoulder.

"At least nine feet tall!"

"You don't look all that tough, though."

"Ok, that's enough, guys," Mr. Sunderland finally says, dispersing the crowd just enough to get between them and me. "I guess it's finally time to give you an explanation, right?"

"I'd appreciate that, actually," I reply, because that part of my brain just got in charge and kicked pushover John out of the way.

"I'll start over, then," he says, spreading his arms dramatically. "Welcome to Utopia Ranch, John. We are The Fist."

Oh, dung.