“Dude, check this out,” he says, handing me the publication and walking into the living room. “My dad left it on his dresser,” he says over his shoulder.

I flip through the pages of a magazine entitled Michigan Cherries, amazed at some of the physical positions the women have managed to twist themselves into. Funny thing is I don’t find any of it hot. I mean, yeah, the models are hot and all that, but I get the sense from the looks on their faces that they’re more concerned about getting paid than turning their readers on. I also find myself somewhat let down that Dale is into this type of thing. I mean, on one hand I’m cool with it. The guy is single, after all. It’s not like he’s married and cheating with magazines. On the other hand … well, it sort of puts a crack in that aura of cool respectability he struck me with earlier.

“Dude, were you looking through my bag?” Tank says.

I close the magazine and look up. My heart’s pounding and my throat feels like it’s full of dry sand. Tank’s staring at me, wrestling bag dangling from his left hand.

I forgot to zip it, I say to myself. I forgot to zip the damn bag!

“What?” I say squinting and stepping into the living room.

“My wrestling bag,” he says, giving me a harder look now. “Did you go through it?”

“No,” I lie. “I was in the kitchen the whole time. Why would I go through your wrestling bag?”

Silence, Tank studying me for what seems like an hour.

Finally, he zips the bag and tosses it back beside the recliner. “Whatever.”

Changing the subject, I raise the magazine and say, “Who still looks at magazines when all the good stuff’s free online?”

Tank shakes his head. “I know my dad. He’s paranoid about technology. The guy doesn’t even like checking his email or using his cell. Must be a cop thing.” He looks back toward the bedroom. “Man, I bet he has a ton of other stuff hidden in there.”

“Maybe.” I look down and shake my head.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I just think there might be certain things we don’t need to know about people.”

“Whatever, man. Personally, I think it’s funny as hell.”

He turns and decides to grab his bag, and I’m about to hand him the magazine when I see a phone number—729-8274—scrawled in tiny blue print along the bottom margin of a cigarette ad on the back cover. My first instinct is to mention it to Tank, but I don’t, telling myself to do whatever it takes to remember the order of those seven digits—729-8274.

“What are you thinking about?” Tank asks, turning back toward me, wrestling bag slung over his shoulder.