“Hey, Zach,” she says. I nod, unable to speak, which must look funny because she simply turns and walks back to the table, leaving behind a lavender-scented breeze.

At this point I realize her smile has changed, too. It’s so big and so … white. The braces—they’re gone! The Sarah Foster aluminum railroad has been dismantled and replaced with a smooth ivory highway.

“Tank’s in the basement,” she says, looking at her dad now.

I step into the kitchen. Dale Foster stares at me and gives me the once-over like I’m some wanted suspect. He gives me a nod. “So what’s new, Zach?”

“Not much.” I steal a glance at his gun. He notices, brings his left arm down over the holster. I look for a badge or some other form of ID clipped to his belt, but I can’t see behind the table.

I glance at Sarah. She’s looking at me out of the corner of her eye. She looks away, but there’s a moment there, a little eye flirting that releases butterflies throughout my stomach. I shift my gaze back to Mr. Foster, who proceeds to shift his gaze between his daughter and me.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “Your mom and dad doing okay?”

“Fine,” I say. “They’re still slaves to that stupid factory.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You think you’re better than them, the people who work there?”

“No, not better. I didn’t say that. I just have different goals is all, like getting out of Blaine one day. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but everybody around here always seems so depressed, like they can’t believe they’re stuck working in a truck plant. Me, my goal is to cross Michigan Avenue one day and settle down in Blaine Heights, because this place, well, it pretty much sucks. I’m gonna pull a Captain Rick and blast the hell out of here.”

He stares at me, expressionless, for what seems like a minute. Then a slight smile crosses his face. “That’s good, Zach. It’s good you have goals. Goals are important.” He looks at Sarah. She smiles and looks down at her plate. “Tell Zach the goal we were just talking about.”

“No, Dad, please,” she says, embarrassed.

“Come on, Sarah,” he says and laughs. She shakes her head. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll tell him.” To me: “Sarah has a goal of getting into Harvard.” He pauses. “How about that?” He holds up a folded piece of paper resting near the KFC bucket and smiles. “And with these test scores, she’ll get in anywhere.”

“Well, if anyone can get into Harvard, it’s Sarah,” I say.