We rode for about ten minutes and stopped at a trailer just off this little road. There were no other houses around. There were three old trucks painted neat colors like turquoise and pinky-red and yellow parked outside and a washing machine and dryer on the covered porch. A newer truck with a camper on it sat next to the old trucks. The only trailer I’d ever been in was on the set of a few TV shows or movies when my dad was doing a guest spot. Remember that time we got to go in the trailer of that hilarious actress who makes that face? She was so nice to give us all that candy. Too bad my dad didn’t get the recurring role the way she said he might.

Ben told me to wait outside.

Then this guy came out. He was sort of short and thin, but he had a lot of muscles and long black hair tied up on the top of his head.

“Hi, I’m Rodney,” I said. Normally I would shake hands with new people, like you’re supposed to, but the guy wasn’t exactly like an adult, because he was too cool. So I just didn’t do anything.

“You here for Ben?”

I nodded.

The guy disappeared into the trailer again and yelled, “Ben! There’s someone here to see you! Get up!”

Then another guy who looked almost exactly the same as the first one appeared in the doorway, but this one had short hair. I blinked to make sure my eyes hadn’t gone strange.

“Hey,” said the second one. The two of them were probably around twenty.

“Ben’s not here,” said the second one.

“Yes, I am,” said Ben, coming around the corner pushing a bike. I realized that he looked like a smaller version of the guys in the doorway. They came onto the porch, and they didn’t have shirts on, and with all their muscles and tattoos, they looked extremely tough, and I felt extremely Circle Square School, if you get what I’m saying.

“Where you guys going?” asked one.

“Thought we’d go up Snuff Hill,” said Ben.

“Can your friend ride?”

I froze. No. No, I wasn’t, and I didn’t like the name of the hill. It was a bad name. I’m aware that when it’s used as a verb, to “snuff” means to kill someone. “Ben, what are you thinking?” said the other twin. He nodded at me. “I’m Greg. The most safety-conscious of the Yamamoto-Whitman clan.”

“As if,” said the other one. “You broke four bones last year. I only broke two and Ben one.”

“I break bones so you don’t have to,” said Greg.

“My dad broke six bones last year,” said Ben. “Left forearm, right big toe, hairline fracture of the left femur, and I forget the rest.”