“Some of that stuff is my mom’s,” Sarah says, peering over my shoulder. “Hurry. I’ll wait here and listen for anything upstairs.”

I squeeze myself through the square-shaped entrance, staying in a low crouch and constantly shifting my gaze from left to right, trying not to cough or sneeze as I move. The boxes are about ten feet away. When I reach them, I don’t see anything of interest, and it occurs to me that I’ll need a lot more time if I want to search through all this stuff. Suddenly doubting my hunch that Tank has a stash somewhere in here, I poke around a little more, desperately sticking my hand in the spaces between boxes and looking around the corners of the stacks.

Nothing.

Until I peek around the corner of the stack on the far right and see a fishing tackle box.

I mean, there it is, a green, newer-looking plastic tackle box, looking as out of place in this crawlspace as my dad inside a church. As I slide it toward me, my heart starts thumping like a bass drum. After a few deep breaths, I reach forward and open the box.

The top level is empty, nothing but little white plastic compartments for fishing tackle that isn’t present. Raising the top level and inspecting the spacious bottom, however, I count four more amber pill bottles of Dianabol (D-Bol), but I also spot something that sends my worries about Tank to new levels.

Five small, clear, unused glass injector bottles rest at the bottom of a quart-sized baggie, each containing a slightly yellowish liquid. The bottles have silver caps with black seals, and the white label on each container reads “Decabol.” The unused needles accompanying the bottles don’t comfort me any.

“What is it, Zach?” Sarah calls from the entrance, startling me and causing me to bump the top of my head on the low ceiling.

“Hang on.” I rub my head with one hand and carefully close and cradle the tackle box with the other. Shuffling toward her in my low crouch, I see the look of concern on her face as she studies the green tackle box in my left hand.

“What is it?” she asks again.

I don’t say anything, simply kneel on the cement floor and place the box in front of me. Then I open it so that the empty top layer faces her. Sarah gives me a confused look. I feel like a seedy drug dealer about to show a buyer my goods. When I lift the top layer, Sarah’s eyes bulge as she studies the contents.

“What is this stuff?” She’s smart enough not to touch anything. I watch her eyes dart from left to right before settling on the needles and injector bottles.

“Take a guess, Sarah. Look at the labels.”

She looks up at me. “I don’t believe it.”