I imagine a giant suction tube falling from the sky and slurping me up and out of Blaine, then spitting me out into some clean, sterile city free of smokestacks, layoff notices, fighting parents, and drug-dealing football coaches. I picture myself as the only male in my new city, surrounded by three hundred Sarah Foster clones. In fact, I decide to name the city Sarahtown, population three hundred one. The Sarahs roam freely in Sarahtown, never confined to a house occupied by an abusive cop father and a psycho twin brother. In Sarahtown, my Sarahs meet every physical and domestic need of mine, and in return I treat each Sarah like a queen, buying them anything they want, regardless of cost. I even decide on a citywide holiday, The Day of the Sarahs. On this day, the Sarahs tell me what to do for a period of twenty-four hours. I mean, I have to give them some freedom, right? But after that, I resume control for the next three hundred sixty-four days.

I’m contemplating the concept of polygamy in Sarahtown when I hear a car approaching from behind. Thinking it might be Mom or Dad looking for me, I flick my cigarette onto the sidewalk, step on it, cap the pint, and shove it down my pants. I sense the car slowing as it draws nearer. When the vehicle is parallel with me, I look to my left and see Barry Deck riding high in his green pickup, a smile on his face as he parks curbside and waves me over.

Great. Mr. Pedophile is soliciting me. Why does this shit always happen to me?

I cross a small patch of lawn and stop at his passenger-side door. The window is down. I take a quick look around the neighborhood. Many homes still have interior lights on. Thank God.

“Hey, Barry.”

“What’s happening, Ramsey?” His happy tone hints at his drunkenness. He has a half-smoked cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, his trademark quart of malt liquor tucked inside a paper bag and wedged between his thighs. “A beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Not bad.”

“My boy wants to play football during his senior year,” he says proudly. “You play, right?”

“For now.”

That seems to confuse him. He adjusts his baseball cap and gives me a look.

“He says practices start on Monday, the double sessions.”

“Yeah.”

“I like that Coach Horton,” he says. “Now there’s a guy who can make a man out of a boy. He’s a hell of a leader, don’t you think?”

“Actually,” I say, feeling the onset of a whiskey buzz, “I think he’s a prick.”

“What’d you just say?” He squints and takes a swallow of beer, rubbing his razor stubble with his palm.