The fort’s a good thirty feet from the rails. It’s basically a cellar, complete with a wooden entrance door made out of two-by-fours concealed with brush. The underground space is about four feet deep, so you have to kneel or squat or sit on one of the plastic milk crates Justin stole from Huey’s during his four-year stretch as a stock boy. Although maximum capacity is four persons, there’s barely enough room for two to sit comfortably. When the trains come roaring past at full speed, our bodies shake from the vibrations and we have to yell to hear each other. Loose dirt falls from the ceiling often, which is why one of the rules is never to look up when a train passes. Regardless, I’m confident the place is one of the coolest forts in the world.

The only bad thing is that it’s a sweatbox during warm weather, so when Tank and I arrive from the elementary school field we decide it’s too hot and dark to go inside. Instead, we clear a space in the brush and sit, staring at the railroad tracks and the low-rent apartment complex located just beyond the large brick wall on the far side of the rails.

“These mosquitoes suck,” I say, slapping them away left and right. “We need to get central air for the fort.”

“Now that would be the ultimate,” Tank says. He leans back, removes the pint of Jim Beam from his jeans, and lays it off to the side.

Next he tips the Marlboro box upside down and packs the smokes, rapping the top of the pack hard against the palm of his left hand several times. Then he peels off the upper portion of the clear plastic wrapper and flicks it into the weeds. Opening the top, he pulls out the silver foil and slides out two cigarettes, popping both between his lips.

He flicks the lighter. An orange and blue flame dances above his thumb. He touches the flame to the cigarettes and closes his eyes. The ends of the smokes turn orange and brighten to a blazing red. Smoke flows out of his nostrils as he hands me a cigarette.

I draw hard on the Marlboro, sucking in smoke and enjoying the slight buzz that always greets me during the first few hits.

“Man, I love smoking,” I say. “Why does it have to be so bad for you?”

“No big deal.” Tank’s cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth as he twists the cap of the Jim Beam and breaks the seal. “Just quit when you’re in your thirties and you’ll be fine.”

“I like how you think.” I exhale a cloud of smoke into the night.

“So, what’s the game tonight?” Tank asks, removing the cap from the bottle and smelling the Jim Beam as if he’s some sort of professional bourbon taster.

“I don’t care. You decide.”