“Yeah,” said Fisherman. “My aunt and uncle are the managers. They’re trailering a horse to Albuquerque and will be gone all day.”

“A horse?” I said.

“I brought a bike for you. Let’s go,” said Ben.

Ten minutes later we were riding bikes in a direction I’d never gone, and it wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold and the road was straight and flat and the sky ahead was almost the same shade of red as the sand and I was green as a Vegas golf course.

I’ve got to stop now so I can do more illegal stuff. J.K. It’s dinnertime and my Mrs. Perfect is waiting.

Yours delinquently,

Rodney

15

Hey, Lar,

I’m back. Now where was I? Oh, right. The Ranch.

It looked like nothing because it looked the same as everything else.

Fisherman stopped his bike, which was almost twice the size of the mountain bikes Ben and I rode and still looked like he’d stolen it from a four-year-old.

“Here it is,” he said.

I looked around for a log house, horses and cowboys and cows, but there was only a double-wide trailer, empty pens, and one longer fenced area that ran behind three old barns and alongside the road for a little way.

“Cool,” said Ben, and I think he was actually serious. Rancho Socorro wasn’t that cool.

“Where is everything?” I asked.

Fisherman didn’t answer. He just sniffed and wiped his nose on the bottom of his shirt. I thought wiping your nose on your sleeve was extremely outlaw. I never even knew that the bottom of the shirt was an option.

“My uncle lets me use his gun sometimes. We do target practice over there,” he said and pointed off behind the barn.

I felt my eyes bulge. Guns? Remember how I said when I first saw him that he might have weapons? I was right! Can you imagine what our teachers at Circle Square would say to hear we were near actual weapons? Or our parents? Your mom especially! So much for Disarm and Live Day, where we wrote letters to members of Congress.

I cleared my throat.

“Don’t worry, I won’t shoot you if you’re against the Second Amendment,” said Fisherman.

It was the first sign that Fisherman knew at least part of the Constitution. I was impressed, even though at Circle Square we learned it at the beginning of fourth grade.

“Anything to eat here?” asked Ben.

“That sounds great!” I said, sounding all high-pitched due to being afraid of guns and hoping Fisherman wouldn’t be bringing one out. I was so nervous I almost wished I was in school getting called a predator instead of at Rancho Scare-o with no adult supervision. “I could go for a snack.” It wasn’t true. The gun talk ruined my appetite.