“Screw you.” He punches my shoulder hard enough to knock me off balance. “I’ll take you down blindfolded with my arms tied behind my back.”

“Whatever,” I say, rubbing my aching shoulder. “You’re missing the point.”

The officers come back.

They tell us to turn around, face the fence, and order us to put our hands behind our backs. Wonderful.

The bastards make a real show of it, too, talking loudly so the neighbors hear every word. They pat us down and find the cigarettes. Then they walk us to the cruiser and put us in the back seat. I figure we’re going to jail, but when they ask where we live, I know exactly what they have in mind.

They pull into Tank’s driveway first, keeping the blue lights flashing and the siren off. Black Cop is in the driver’s seat. He gets out and walks to Tank’s front door.

While we’re sitting there in the idling cruiser, an odd thing happens. Tank starts to cry, something I’ve never seen him do before. The tears come slowly at first, but when I ask him what’s wrong, he just loses it and bawls all over himself. It’s one of those snot-dripping cries, too, all uncontrollable and messy. And poor Tank can’t use his hands because they’re handcuffed behind his back, so he just keeps sniffling and snorting mucous back into his mouth and swallowing. It’s totally gross, and I feel bad for him, but it’s kind of funny at the same time. I mean, he’s the idiot who snapped and got us in trouble. He should feel bad.

I look toward the front door. Dale Foster stands on the porch, wearing that same white tank top, thick arms folded across his barreled chest. He’s nodding and listening to Black Cop, who has his back to us. Mr. Foster looks pissed, and when Tank sees his dad, he cries even harder.

“Easy, Tank,” I say. “They could’ve taken us to jail. We’re getting a deal here.”

“Your friend’s right,” White Cop says without looking back. “And don’t get snot all over my back seat.”

“He’s gonna kill me,” Tank says. He takes a few deep breaths and starts crying again.

White Cop says to Tank, “Ain’t a cop around here doesn’t know Dale Foster. And you’re right, pal, your dad’s got a lot of power. Judging from what I’ve heard about him, he’s probably gonna tear you apart in about five minutes.” The cop laughs.

“Hey, come on,” I say. “Is that necessary?”

“Shut up, skinny,” he says. “You’re next.”

Black Cop comes back and opens Tank’s door as White Cop gets out. Together, they escort Tank to his waiting father.