I listen. “No … not right now.”

“So if we hear somebody we’ll stop.” He hands me a rock. “Try one.”

Okay, so Tank Foster is a psycho who has nearly fifty pounds on me and happens to be my best friend. If I tell him to stop, he won’t think twice about backhanding me across the bridge of my nose or putting me into some torturous, medieval wrestling hold. And the fact that he’s buzzed doesn’t help the situation. It only makes him more unpredictable than usual.

So what I do is play along and toss the rock, but I underthrow it on purpose and it lands in front of the brick wall.

Tank shakes his head in disappointment.

“Check this one out.” He fires another shot. The rock clears the wall and lands with a loud bang. Glass doesn’t break, but he’s obviously hit a car.

“There’s a nice dent.” He laughs.

“Tank, I don’t know about—”

“Shut up. Just a few more.”

And there’s nothing I can do to stop him. He tosses rock after rock over the wall in all possible directions. Most of them end up hitting automobiles.

Satisfied, he finally stands. “Okay, let’s bolt.”

I force myself to my feet, still buzzed but able to maintain decent balance. As we make our way up the slope and past the fort, we hear the echo of a sliding door opening from the apartments.

An angry male voice: “The hell you think you’re doing over there? You can kill somebody like that.”

We stop and turn. A man is standing on his second-floor balcony, looking in our direction. Then we see a police cruiser pulling into the apartment entrance off to our far left, near the crossing gates. The siren isn’t on, but the blue lights on the roof flash wildly.

“Run,” Tank says. “Fast.”

I follow him through the familiar backyards leading to our street, and I’m glad I know the route because my legs feel like putty. We run up the street, avoiding sidewalks and staying close to the homes, not stopping until we’re back on the asphalt path leading to the elementary school. My throat burns and my heart pounds through my skin. My thighs are twitching, too, like I have one of those palsy things. All I can taste is Jim Beam and cigarettes.

“That was close,” Tank says.

“I’m going home.” I turn and walk toward the street. “That was stupid.”

“Yeah, let’s call it a night.” He catches up to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Man, we’re crazy, aren’t we?”

“You’re crazy.” I pull my shoulder away, irritated.

Tank laughs.

When we reach the end of the path, a police cruiser pulls up and blocks our exit. The spotlight that shines on us seems ten times brighter than the one from the train locomotive.