The weapon’s kickback has no effect on Tank. He stands his ground like some stoic marble statue. A putrid odor accompanies the thin streams of smoke hovering above the barrel. Mandy Frack’s backyard suddenly smells like skunks and smoke bombs.

With the exception of Tank, everybody drops to the grass upon hearing the blast. When the smoke clears, I sit up to check on Mandy. She’s nowhere in sight. I picture her lifeless body floating in the pool, the water stained red with her blood. Moments later, however, I’m relieved to hear the sound of her crying somewhere on the deck.

Tank says, “Still think it’s a toy, Mandy?”

She’s crying harder now.

“My God,” a terrified Chad Billings says. “You shot her.”

“I didn’t shoot her,” Tank says, finally lowering the gun.

“How do you know?” Billings asks.

“Because I know how to shoot,” Tank says. He turns toward Billings. “I went wide right on purpose.”

Billings sits up. Tank walks over and presses the barrel to his forehead.

An overwhelming silence descends upon Blaine Heights.

Tank notices. “Why’s everybody so quiet? I feel like I’m at a convention for mutes.”

For some reason, that almost makes me laugh.

Shifting his gaze between Billings and his petrified crew, Tank says, “Not much to talk about now, huh, Billings?” To his crew: “Not much to laugh at now, is there, guys?” To Billings and his crew: “Funny how the prospect of death silences even the biggest of assholes.”

Billings is on his knees now, arms limp, all of his buddies still lying in the grass, arms over their heads like they’re participating in one of those old Cold War duck-and-cover drills. Looking at Chad Billings, I see a guy who thinks his life is about to end. He’s too afraid to speak. Snot dangles from his nostrils like silly string, eyes closed as he awaits Tank’s kill shot.

“Tank, don’t do it,” I plead. “You’ll go to prison forever. Just breathe and let’s get out of here.”

Billings whimpers like a helpless puppy. Tank doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s in another world, some possessed state I know nothing about. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his brow furrowed. I think back to the railroad tracks again and how close he came to getting killed that night. This Tank Foster is a stranger to me, a terrifying stranger who is impossible to reason with. Despite all of his athletic gifts and bright future, my best friend has some psychological scars that need serious professional attention.

“Tank,” I say again, trying to sound calm. “Put the gun down.” Again, he doesn’t respond. I watch his finger apply added pressure to the trigger. Another little squeeze and Chad Billings gets a bullet lodged in his brain.

Luckily for him—and for Tank—a siren saves his life.