Out at the Dumpster, I decide I’m going to quit my job as a stock boy. Well, maybe not quit, but at least take some time off, fake sick or something. Everything’s just too awkward now. Once again, I feel as if I’ve reached rock bottom.

As I’m tossing ideas around in my head about how to handle the Tank-and-Sarah mess, I sense something in the alley behind me. Figuring it’s Foreman and Banks coming for their beer, I gently close the sliding door of the Dumpster and wipe my dirty hands on my jeans, fully prepared to inform them that Bootleggers of Blaine is gone forever.

However, when I turn to face them, they’re not there. Instead, I see a large and shiny green pickup truck roll to a stop in front of the sealed back door of the store. The driver is facing me, but his face is dark and unidentifiable. The engine is running and the vehicle is about twenty feet away.

The driver reaches his left hand out of the window and waves me over. I abandon the empty cart and approach, thinking he’s some late delivery person looking to use the back entrance. However, when I’m parallel with his window I realize I know the man. In fact, I just saw him in the store less than an hour ago. He’s a regular customer during the ten o’clock rush, a quiet guy in his forties who buys a quart of malt liquor and a pack of cigarettes nightly. He’s tall and lean and always has thick razor stubble covering his face and neck.

“How you doing, kid?”

His voice is gruff. His breath smells of cigarettes and alcohol, typical for a Blaine factory rat.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Day off tomorrow?”

He raises a paper bag to his lips and takes a long drink from a quart of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite the air-conditioned breeze escaping through the open window, beads of sweat coat his forehead and upper lip.

“They gave me a permanent vacation,” he says.

“Who did?”

He points in the direction of the factory’s smokestacks. “They did,” he says, holding a pink piece of paper in front of me. I can’t read the fine print, but I know it’s a layoff notice. Dad and his buddies talk about the “pink sheets” often.

“Sorry.”

He drops the paper onto the passenger seat. “Sometimes I have a dream that I get to line up all the CEOs of American car companies and shoot them between the eyes.”

“I’m sorry you lost your job, sir.”

“It’s Barry,” he says. “Barry Deck. You look about my son’s age. His name’s Barry, too.”