Tank seems to know this, because he turns off his cell and orders me to do the same, which I immediately do.

We find ourselves on a street called Glendale. The homes here are even fancier than the ones on Mandy’s street, bigger colonials on double lots with well-groomed lawns and mature willow and maple trees. There are no streetlights. We avoid sidewalks, using trees and the sides of houses for cover. As we navigate the street, I wonder what these people do for a living to afford such luxury.

We stay silent for a few blocks until we feel somewhat safe from the police.

However, we still don’t know where we are.

That’s when Tank says, “I scare myself sometimes.”

“You scare everybody, Tank.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You have a loaded handgun in your pants. That should tell you something about yourself right there.”

“I’m a responsible marksman. My dad taught me well.”

“You call firing at a girl on a pool deck responsible?”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“What about when you had the gun on Billings’s forehead? You remember that?”

“I was in total control.”

“Whatever. I know when you lose it. Your face says it all.” I pause. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Bits and pieces. That’s why I scare myself. I know when it’s coming, one of the moods. Sometimes I can stop it, other times I can’t.”

“Maybe you could at least take the bullets out of the gun.”

“No. It’ll be tricky enough replacing the one I used. If I don’t put it back exactly how I found it, my dad will know.”

A few minutes pass in silence. Then we come to Birch Street and can’t help but smile. We know where we are. Finally. Birch is the wealthiest street in Blaine Heights. We turn left, knowing Michigan Avenue is only ten minutes away. Massive brick Tudors line Birch Street, most of them built by wealthy auto executives back in the glory days of the industry. The homes are set back atop a natural rise, each one overlooking a lush green lawn that seems larger than a football field.

“Wow,” I say, craning my neck to get a view of each house we pass. “Trump could live back here.”

“You think they have it all,” Tank says. “But my dad says rich people are more screwed up than average people.”

“I wouldn’t mind finding out for myself. I want to be rich. I have to be rich.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sick of being poor.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You know, if Mandy and Billings tell the cops, you’ll get arrested.”

“They’re too scared to tell.”

“But what if they do?”

Tank ignores the question, stops and points toward a house up the street.

“Looks like a party,” he says. “Check out all the cars.”

The house is about forty yards away. We walk toward it.