By the time she nudges open the screen door with her shoe, the Tahoe’s here, sliding to a stop. Feels like her heart’s a microwave clock after a power outage—frozen in time and forever flashing. What happens now? Men come tumbling out of the car? Guns at the ready? Winky and Bodie and Ellis Wayman? A hail of gunfire? The other day leaving the Farm was her first real shoot-out—something no teen girl should ever think, much less say—and she’s not eager to repeat the experience.

And yet, here she stands. Gun up, hammer cocked.

Car door opens and a big man gets out of the front.

But it’s a different big man than she expects.

Orly Erickson.

He’s still got that sculpted beard, that big logjam chest beneath a too-tight powder-blue polo. He’s not big like Wayman is big—Wayman is a feature of the landscape given flesh and bone and life, like he woke up in the forest one day under a big carpet of moss and left his Sasquatch brothers to come live amongst men. Orly’s like a big-game hunter on safari. Wayman’s fatter, sure, but he looks to have earned his body. The elder Erickson forged his—like something you build, not something you are.

Orly holds up both hands, smiles teeth that are like his son’s: broad, too white, too even.

“Atlanta Burns,” he says. “You ought to put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

“Seems this is the second time we’re in this situation,” she says, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “You want me to steal another piece of jewelry from you? Maybe take your shoes, your watch?”

Orly’s smile disappears for a moment, surely thinking about that ring. But then it comes back, like a flash of lightning in an otherwise dark sky. “Heard you were up at the fights the other day.”

“Must’ve been someone else.”

Whitey sidles up next to her, coiled like a spring. Orly’s about twenty feet away, and she wonders suddenly if the dog’s going to make a move. She puts a hand on his haunches, and he relaxes. A little.

“You keeping tabs on us?” he asks.

“Now why would I do that?” She knows she’s entering the rattlesnake’s den on this one, but she can’t help herself: “Not like you killed one of my friends or anything.”

“Hey, now, watch your mouth with accusations like that. We’re just having a polite conversation. Besides, that boy killed himself. Police reports say so. Suicide is a hard thing.”

“Suicide must be a disease that’s going around. Heard tell of other gay kids catching it. Maybe a few Mexicans, too. Thank the Lord no straight white dudes are getting hurt. That happens, folks’ll be gathering in town-hall meetings and calling up drone strikes.”