The train has just passed through and is about a football field away, closing quickly. The bright light of the approaching locomotive blinds me.

“Tank,” I yell. “I could use some help here.”

He doesn’t hear me.

I scramble to my feet and somehow manage to get back to the brush before falling down again. I hear wild laughter behind me. Turning, I see Tank charging down the slope like some psycho murderer in a horror film. I figure he’ll stop when he reaches me, but that’s not what happens. Instead, he sprints right past me. I watch in horror as he steps onto the railroad tracks and starts waving his arms at the locomotive. I scream for him to get away, but the deafening roar of the train drowns out my voice.

The engineer must see Tank, because the train’s horn emits a series of short, desperate blasts. But Tank stays put, doing some wild dance on the rails, playing some twisted game of chicken. I start yelling all this stupid crap about steroids making him crazy, but I know he can’t hear me above the thunderous roar of the train and horn.

Finally, with the locomotive barely fifty feet away, Tank scampers off the tracks, dives toward the brush, and crawls over to me. My stomach drops as the train speeds past.

“You’re crazy enough sober,” I yell. “But you’re insane when you’re drunk.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m always under control.” He pats me on the shoulder.

“Whatever.”

“I’m serious about what I said up there, Zach. Don’t even think that way about her.”

“I know,” I say. “Don’t worry. I was just kidding.”

I steal glances at his bulging arms, chest, shoulders, and legs. Then I think about what I just witnessed—a seventeen-year-old challenging a freight train—and decide I might need to know more about where Tank’s getting the juice from.

Chapter_8

8

We sit there and watch the freight cars flicker past, our bodies trembling from the vibrations. When the caboose rolls by, Tank stands and walks toward the rails. He gathers several rocks in his arms, carries them over, drops them in front of me, and sits down.

“What are these for?” I ask.

“It’s a new game. I call it ‘Hit the Windshield.’”

He grabs a rock and cocks his arm. The rock sails in a high arc and crashes against the tall brick wall bordering the low-rent apartment complex on the other side of the tracks.

“What are you doing, Tank?”

“It’s simple. Can you see the cars parked on the other side of the wall?”

“No.”

“That’s the game.” He reaches for another rock. “Whoever breaks a windshield first wins.” He launches the second rock. This one travels over the wall and lands with a dull thud, another miss.

“What if you hit somebody?”

“Do you hear anybody?”