“That’s a relic,” Emily says. “The kind of thing you put on your mantel, but don’t actually use.” Then, “War reenactment shit.”

Dana reddens.

“It’s got a place for bullets, doesn’t it?”

Emily acknowledges it does.

“But be careful,” she says. “You don’t want it blowing up in your face.”

They go quiet. Thinking of faces. Tammy’s and Melanie’s.

A police siren blips from out on Fallow El Street. The friends peer around the brick side of the building as a group, see a squad car has pulled over a beat-up sedan out in front of the high school. The long-haired man in the driver’s seat rolls down his window. Looks like he’s unsure why he’s been pulled over. The cop exits the squad car and walks slowly to the vehicle. Halfway there his hand hovers above his holster but he doesn’t draw the gun. He gives the driver’s door a wide berth and bends at the waist as he asks questions. The driver shakes his head no, looks confused, then adamant. The cop points up the road, but the ballers have no idea what he’s saying.

“That’s how little their leads are,” Natasha says. “Pulling over randos and asking if they’re the killer.”

“Most killers are caught in stupid ways,” Dana says. “Expired plates, running red lights, stealing a pack of gum from a gas station the same night they killed someone.”

The cop steps back another foot and the driver’s door opens. The man looks upset. He can’t be that much older than the ballers, maybe in his late twenties, tops. He walks to the back of the car and the friends think he’s going to place his hands on the trunk so the cop can search him, but no, he opens the trunk.

“Whoa,” Natasha says.

The cop keeps a safe distance, but close enough to see what’s inside. The man pulls out a blanket. The cop spots something, leans in, reaches in, removes what looks like a joint, the way he holds it between his forefinger and thumb.

They exchange words. The cop smells it. Hands it back to the man.

“Maybe he was drunk driving,” Stewart says.

“Her arm was removed,” Dana says.

A basketball rolls between the group and they turn to see a little girl has come to retrieve it. Older kids play on the concrete court thirty yards away.

“You got a good handle?” Natasha asks the kid. Natasha who can’t dribble without bouncing it off her knee.

The girl looks to Dana, to Kit, to the others.

“Can you dribble?” Dana asks.

The girl nods.

“Show us,” Dana says. She has the gun behind her back.

The girl picks up the ball and dribbles once between her legs. It rolls to the grass.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be just fine,” Dana says.

Another quick siren sounds and the group gets back to the brick corner and sees the cop back in his car, the driver starting his. They both pull away. The cop looks in their direction as he does. The friends duck behind the building.