But tonight the house isn’t empty. Strange. I can see Tank’s dad and sister eating dinner in the kitchen, right there at the old brown Formica table, a big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken resting in the middle. Tank’s dad is sitting at the far end, facing me, and Sarah is at the opposite end, her back to me.

One thing about the Fosters: they live off of fast food, which is another reason I’m so jealous of Tank. I mean, I can totally smell the Colonel’s special recipe out here on the porch. And one time—and I so swear this is true—Mr. Foster served Taco Bell in place of turkey on Thanksgiving.

So I’m about to knock, but I pull my hand back at the last moment and decide to do a little surveillance on Mr. Foster, a man I haven’t seen in nearly three months. I also realize that once I do enter the house, I might be able to make my first play on him. If all goes according to plan, I’ll get him to reveal some information that will earn me another fifty bucks from Huey.

Dale Foster wears a white tank top that sticks to his bulging muscles like a second skin. He has a deep tan and sports straight black hair, slicked back and shoulder length. His mustache is thick, but the twisted-up corners are missing, a fact that pisses me off a little because … well, let’s face it: you don’t exactly see mustaches like that very often.

Despite his intimidating physical appearance, Mr. Foster is smiling and laughing, listening to Sarah talk about something, probably bragging about her grades again. As he reaches into the bucket for a chicken leg, I catch a brief glimpse of the green dragon tattoo on his right forearm, but I see something else, too: a gun. There it is, tucked along the left side of his ribcage, a big black rubber handle sticking out of a black leather holster. I wonder if he’s ever killed anybody. Tank said his dad served in the first Gulf War but never talks about it.

Yeah, I decide, the guy’s definitely killed people, probably lots.

I’m debating whether to leave when, for some reason, I look at the back of Sarah’s head. There’s something different about it, but I can’t figure out what.

After a few moments it hits me. She’s gotten a haircut, a big one, at least eight inches taken off. And her hair isn’t dirty and matted anymore. It’s smooth and shiny, a thick, luxurious-looking tumble of dark hair ending just above her shoulders. Her sense of fashion has changed, too. She’s all Abercrombied-out now.

Wow.