I stand behind Tank as he enters the combination to the lock on Big Dale’s bedroom door. He’s showed me the room once before, back in middle school, and I know it’s full of guns. I’ve never stepped inside, just looked in from the hallway, but right now I have a good feeling I’ll be going in to explore. I’m nervous because I hate guns. I’ve never handled one in my life, not even a BB gun or pellet rifle. I pray Big Dale isn’t the kind of gun owner who keeps every firearm loaded, because the thought of Tank Foster around live ammunition isn’t very comforting.

He’s having trouble with the lock. Good. As he works it, I look to my right and stare through the open door of Sarah’s small bedroom. She’s made her bed, and the beach towel she had wrapped around her earlier now lies on the mattress with her orange bikini on top. There’s a small dresser near the window on the far side of the room. I gaze at it, wondering what types of clothes are in the drawers.

Tank is swearing at the lock now, still can’t open it.

My eyes drift back to the bikini. I study the two pieces of soft orange fabric in awe and have to force myself to look away.

That’s when Tank says, “Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I wipe my forehead and tell myself to think about nursing homes or my grandparents. “It’s kind of hot in here.”

“The air’s on.”

“Must be the whiskey.”

“Whatever.” He dangles the lock in front of my face and pushes his father’s bedroom door open. “Come on in.”

From the looks of the place, Dale Foster is not an organized man. An unkempt full-size bed occupies most of the space. Loose change, wadded-up paper balls, and cologne bottles lie atop two dressers flanking either side of the bed. An old TV rests on a small metal stand at the foot of the mattress, a DVD player on the bottom shelf. The walls and ceiling are a dirty shade of beige.

But the gun racks stand out the most. Four of them, one mounted on each wall, each overstocked with powerful-looking shotguns and rifles leaning precariously against one another. Each rack has a glass door with a brass key lock, and I pray Tank doesn’t know how to get into them. Boxes of shotgun shells and bullets, some open, most not, lie at the bottom of each rack. The place is a suburban arsenal.

“Is your dad expecting an invasion?”

Tank crosses to the far dresser.

“All cops like guns. But it’s not the guns I want you to see.” He lifts the flimsy mattress. “Check this out. I found the stash.”