IT’S ALMOST THREE IN THE MORNING. AFTER A LATE-NIGHT SNACK of peanut-butter sandwiches—Tanq smashed up Oreo cookies on hers—we’ve crammed ourselves inside the Ferrari, which is a two-seater. Trey is precariously perched halfway into the driver’s seat, his left leg and shoulder hanging out the door. I’m smooshed into the middle, one knee bent up to my nose to avoid the gear shift. Emmaline is on Tanq’s lap in the passenger seat. Tanq holds a bottle of bourbon, and she’s a little tipsy. She found it in her dad’s office and helped herself.

I used to drink. Not often, but too much at parties. Shawntelle and I made a pact to quit drinking after we lost a home game to a crappy team. We were only mildly hungover from the party the night before. But we also weren’t at our best.

I’ll do anything to be the best. Shawntelle got that about me.

Tanq takes another swig, elbowing my ribs in the process. We’d be a lot more comfortable in the Cadillac, but none of us have ever been inside a Ferrari before.

My fears about ditching Paul’s SUV for something sportier proved unfounded. The Cadillac gets terrible gas mileage, according to Trey. The other car I didn’t have a name for turns out to be a Bentley, but it’s blocked by some boxes and a motorcycle with a flat tire. The rest have messed up windshields thanks to Tanq’s tire iron and paint, so they’re going nowhere.

Trey has the Ferrari’s key fob in one hand. With the other, he presses the “start” button halfway down to engage the radio. I expected something fancy: a touch screen, maybe. But the Ferrari sound system is hardly different from the one in Paul’s car. I reach forward and turn the dial to AM 1610.

Static at first. Then: “. . . your own safety, do not leave your homes under any circumstances. Anyone violating this order will be shot on sight. . . .”

“That’s just the repeater message,” I say. It cuts in and out, barely discernable. The radio signal isn’t as strong here in New Albany as it was in Columbus.

“Give it a minute,” Tanq says.

We wait. The message repeats three times, the broadcast becoming stronger and clearer. Emmaline gets restless, lapping at Tanq’s face, then shaking her head like she was stung; probably got a little taste of bourbon. My shoulder is crammed too tight against Trey’s, but I don’t hate it.

The message cuts off abruptly. More static. Finally comes a man’s voice, lower than that of the recording. Cracked and old. Not a radio announcer at all.

“This is Manny Gomez on AM 1610, Sandusky’s only pirate radio station. I am live. I repeat, this is a live human voice. You are not alone.”

“Holy shit,” Trey whispers.

“Told you,” said Tanq.