LIKE MOST MEN IN rural America, my father owned a gun. Jason’s dad owned several, and on lazy summer days when there was little else to do (I was still an underdog where the opposite sex was concerned, and a good year and a half away from getting laid for the first time, whereas I think Jason was even further away than that), the two of us would shoot cans and trees in the woods behind his house. One day in the summer after my freshman year, instead of using one of his as I’d always done before, I took my dad’s gun, which I’d long since discovered in one of the drawers beneath my parents’ bed. I grabbed the gun and box of ammo and wrapped them in a towel. Without considering the laws I might’ve been breaking, I placed the towel in my backpack, pulled the straps over my shoulders, and headed out the door.

Jason lived in an isolated farmhouse eight miles away. His dad was a part-time farmer who raised sheep and grew several acres of hay we all helped bale at the end of summer. His name was John and he was an affable man with white hair and a beard, and I liked him a lot. He was a sports fanatic—which is how Jason had come to know so much about them—going as far as to collect and sell trading cards and memorabilia at events around Ohio and surrounding states. He had a vast gun collection despite never having the heart to be a hunter.

When I rode up on my bike, he was standing outside holding a glass of ice water and looking at the yard that one of his sons—there were three—had just finished mowing. I waved at him as I went into the house. I found Jason sitting on the edge of the coffee table watching SportsCenter. He wore green shorts and a plain white T-shirt.

“What up, yo?”

“Shit,” he said. “What’s in the bag?”

“My old man’s gun.”

He smiled. “He’s going to whip your ass.”

“Nah. He might try.”

Jason laughed. “Right. What is it?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

I pulled it from the bag and handed it to him. The gun was two-toned, silver and black. That was the extent of my knowledge.

“Is it loaded?”

“Probably.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, popping the clip and inspecting it. “Yep, that’s definitely a full clip. You just rode ten miles on your bike with a loaded gun. The safety wasn’t even on.”

“Eh, it was only eight miles,” I said. “What kind is it?”

“Don’t know.” Just then his father walked in. “Dad, what is this?”

He took the gun and turned it over in his hand.