Another three shots ring out by the time I’ve reached the street. Tank’s standing in front of his father’s truck, staring at the grill, the gun dangling from his limp right hand. The overwhelming smell of cordite permeates my nostrils and mouth. I stand beside him and look at the pickup. He’s shot all four tires, the bottom of each looking like a big wad of melted tar.

Before I can try to calm him down, the front doors of the house open and Dale Foster runs toward us, a white robe hanging loosely from his body. Helen Dawkins and a few other robed adults stand on the wraparound porch, gawking. The sight of all those robes makes me wonder what really goes on in this house, but I don’t have time to ponder that thought, which is probably a good thing.

Tank shoves me out of the way and raises the gun toward his father.

Dale Foster stops on the lawn and puts his hands in the air. He’s about twenty feet away from his son. I get up from the hard cement and retreat to the sidewalk, the sting of the concrete snaking through my body like a fast-growing spider web.

“Put it down, son,” Big Dale says, in a voice that is half cop and half parent.

“Why should I?” Tank says. “You’re nothing but a lie.”

“Son, I know you’re upset right now, but don’t make things worse.”

“Why can’t you just be a dad? You drove Mom away and you’re nothing but a goddamn fake.”

Sirens sound in the distance.

Some of the adults on the porch are on their cell phones.

Neighbors are out on their lawns now.

“Tank, put the gun down,” Dale pleads. “This is wrong and you know it.”

“I don’t know what I know,” Tank shouts. He turns to his right and fires a bullet through the truck’s windshield.

People scream. Many retreat indoors.

Tank drops the gun onto the hood of the truck and takes off down the street past me. I think about following him but decide against it.

Dale Foster sprints out into the street and grabs the gun. Watching his son vanishing into the darkness, he says to me, “Zach, does he have any other guns on him?”

“No,” I say, pissed off at this miserable excuse for a father.

So I march toward Big Dale and glimpse what look like flashing blue lights moving quickly up a neighboring street. On the lawn, Helen Dawkins jogs toward us with a look of concern on her face. She hugs Big Dale and looks at me.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, young man,” she says.

“Nice to see you tonight, Mrs. Dawkins,” I say.

She squints and studies me.

“Do I know you?”

“I work for your husband. You know, the guy you’re married to?”