And here, again, Shane’s eyes go big and bulgey.

Atlanta taps the counter. “I need a box of shells.”

Shane’s not paying attention. Instead he recites a litany of what he sees: “Tonfa. Sais. Manrikigusari. Wakizashi. Katanas! Oh, dude, whoa, katanas.” He scurries over to a wall clad in a velvet drape with various implements of ninja destruction hanging there. Then he spies a wall of medieval weaponry—swords and maces and pieces of armor—and dashes over to that. The guys behind the counter, who look like carnies, watch him and snicker.

“Eyes up here,” Atlanta says. “I said, I need shells. Gimme the .410s.”

One of the carnies, a scruffy ginger, reaches in past a display of Zippo lighters and butterfly knives and plunks a box out on the glass. “Shooting squirrels?”

“Rats,” she says.

“Cool.”

The parking lot looks like a scene from the end of the world: beater cars and certified POSes left and right, molester van sitting cockeyed next to a pimped-up Cadillac. Lots of rust and second- or thirdhand rides. Atlanta and Shane weave between crap-bucket cars. He finally gets the advantage and scoots in front of her.

“You have to let me go with you,” he says. “I wanna go.”

She slides past him, almost knocks the long, velvet-wrapped package out from under his arm. “I can’t believe you bought that thing.”

“It was only a hundred bucks.” He tucks the fabric-clad katana tighter. “It’s awesome.”

“It’s a flea-market katana. It’s pretty douchey.”

“Is it?”

“Kinda. Like, if you smelled of Drakkar Noir and wore gold chains and pretended to meditate and were in your midforties and stuff, I would totally expect to find a katana on your wall.”

He hurries after her again. “Maybe it’s for home protection. You ever think of that?”

“A shotgun is for home protection. A katana is for dudes who want to pretend to be a ninja. And by the way, a cheap-shit katana won’t cut through a bubble bath, much less a burglar or serial killer.”

“It seemed pretty sharp to—” Shane growls in frustration. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Correction: I already changed the subject.”

“Well, I’m changing it back! You should take me to the fight.”

They reach the edge of the parking lot. Shane’s bike—somewhat miraculously—remains locked up around a bent maple tree. Atlanta hoofed it from home. Another two-hour walk awaits her. “What? So you can protect me with your garage-sale katana?”

“C’mon. Atlanta. Please. I can be helpful. I can . . . carry ammo for you. I can watch your back.”

“So you’re like a mule?” She looks left, looks right, then crosses over the road after a pickup passes. “It’s a bad idea.”

“I want to help, and I can only help if I’m there. You want my big brain? Then the big brain goes with you. C’mon. Pleeeeease.”