“We could get shot up here,” I say. “You realize that? Whoever lives here can shoot us and get away with it, say they thought we were breaking in.”

“I’ll shoot back,” he says, patting the gun. “Light me a smoke. We don’t have much time.”

I light the cigarettes and follow Tank toward the back of the house and around to the balcony. Here we are, smoking cigarettes as we try to keep our balance on the roof. It’s all so funny that at one point I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Anyway, despite our tiptoeing and my near-laughter, I’m convinced somebody inside can hear us and will emerge at any moment. But I have to admit, there’s an element of excitement to the danger. Yeah, I’m scared of what I’m about to see, but the adrenaline flowing through my body seems to override the fear, forcing me onward like some soldier of the suburbs.

We hop the balcony’s short guardrails with ease. The view of the pool is magnificent. I’m tempted to continue my fantasy with Sarah, but Tank has other things on his mind. I turn to say something and notice him standing in front of the window already, staring at it like he’s afraid to go any further. Inside, the dim, filtered light still shows around the edges of the drawn curtain. The gap between the curtain and the window frame is barely an inch, meaning Tank will have to press his nose against the glass to see inside.

He takes one last big hit off his cigarette and flicks it over the balcony. I watch it land on the patio, the lighted end splintering off into dozens of tiny orange particles. Tank gives me a look, cups his hands around the left edge of the glass, and peers in. Seconds later, without turning, he reaches his right arm behind him and motions me over to the opposite side. I toss my cigarette butt and step forward.

What I see makes me want to puke.

A man and a woman are naked in bed, no sheets covering them. The bed is fancy, a king-size four-poster. The man is lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, but we can’t see his face because the woman is straddling his mid-section, her back to us. The woman has a stellar body, a dark tan, and long, ratted-out blonde hair, three features that convince me she’s Helen Dawkins. I’ve never seen anything like this, and it’s totally upsetting and gross, so I close my eyes.

Tight.

None of it seems to bother Tank, though. I can hear him laughing.

He says, “You think that’s my dad?”

“I don’t know.” My eyes are still closed, my stomach churning. “Tank, I don’t like this. I think we should—”

“Dude, it’s my dad,” he interrupts.