“Yeah,” I say, noticing Tank’s bulging biceps and stump-like thighs. “That’s the thing. I mean, the guy’s in space right now.” I point toward the blue sky. “One month ago he’s giving a talk in our school gym, and now he’s orbiting the planet.” I shake my head, amazed. “So I’m watching him give this interview from the shuttle and I’m thinking, man, now there’s a guy who got the hell out of Blaine.”

Tank laughs. “I’d say Captain Rick holds the record for the greatest distance between a human being and Blaine, Michigan.”

“I can’t wait to pull a Captain Rick.”

“Same here, man.” Tank pats me on the shoulder. “One more year, Zach. One more year.”

Huey’s Party Store is an ugly green building across the street from the assembly plant. On hot days like this, I look forward to the blast of air-conditioning that always hits me when I enter. Inside, a massive floor-to-ceiling beverage cooler occupies half of the the rear wall. There’s an open doorway in the middle that leads to a small back room, where the stock boys hang out and load the cooler through its rear-entry door. The cooler is this sort of blue-collar, beer-drinking holy site. Everybody in Blaine knows about Huey’s prized possession and respects him for maintaining the coldest beverages in the state. That’s the rumor, anyway. I like to think of Huey’s as the nucleus of Blaine. Without the store, the city dries up and dies, guaranteed.

We say hello to Huey, who has his elbows on the counter, reading the paper with one of those old school no-filter cigarettes wedged between his lips. His eyes are bloodshot, but his dark, thick hair and deep tan give him a healthy glow.

I’m following Tank to the Gatorade section of the cooler when Huey calls me over. As usual, classic rock plays loudly through two ceiling speakers.

“Hey, Zach, come here a second,” he says.

I stop and turn and walk toward him, thinking about how in the six years I’ve been coming here he’s never said anything to me outside of a standard greeting. Tank is close behind me, so I turn toward him and shrug. He shrugs back.

When I reach the counter, Huey’s reading the sports section, studying the horse numbers from the Northville track. A cloud of smoke forms in front of his face every time he exhales, but he seems used to it, doesn’t even bother waving it away.

Without looking up, he coughs and says, “I asked for Zach, Tank, not you.” I turn toward Tank again, who rolls his eyes and heads back toward the cooler.

“What is it, Huey?” I ask.