Tank climbs down the ladder and steps onto the grass. Billings and his crew snicker and mutter things under their breath. Tank walks past me like I’m not even here. It’s awkward seeing him like this, walking nude in front of so many people. I wonder why he didn’t simply challenge Billings to walk the clothes over to him at the pool. I mean, that’s what I’ve come to expect from Tank when he gets like this. He doesn’t take shit from anybody, and the last thing he wants is to embarrass himself.

But that’s exactly what he’s doing right now, humiliating himself, walking around like this in front of his wrestling peers.

So I follow him, worried.

When Mandy sees me, she says, “Thought your ankle was hurt, Zach.”

“Guess it got better,” I say over my shoulder.

“Suppose you’re ready for me now, huh?” she says. “Well, too bad. You were never in the plan.”

I stop and turn. “That’s good, because I wouldn’t touch you even if we were the last two people alive.”

I continue trailing Tank. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking toward Billings. Billings looks nervous.

Tank’s about ten feet away from him, silent but determined.

Billings kicks the clothes.

“Don’t touch them,” Tank orders. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“You challenging me, Foster?” Billings says.

“Just don’t touch them.”

Billings glances to his left and right, smiling at his buddies. Then he reaches down and picks up Tank’s jeans.

“Drop them,” Tank says, barely three feet away from Billings now.

“Christ, Foster,” Billings says, smelling the fabric, “you do stink.” He feels the front pocket. “What’s in here, anyway, free weights?”

But before Chad Billings can check, Tank raises his right foot and kicks the jeans out of Billings’s hands, his foot hooking the pants in a way that sends them floating back toward him, where he snags them in mid-air, all of this done in one swift motion. It’s the kind of fight move you see in movies, yet here it is going down in a backyard in Blaine Heights, Michigan.

Incredible.

Stunned, Billings steps back and stares at his empty hands, shaking the sting out of them. Tank quickly steps into his pants, pulling them up and zipping them. His underwear is still on the ground, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“The hell’s your problem, Foster?” Billings says.

“You are,” Tank says, and reaches into his front pocket.

The gun is tiny and looks like a toy, but I know it’s real. Tank obviously took it from his dad’s collection.