Tomorrow night, Ronnie was going to go along whether he was invited or not.

“I love you,” he whispered in Jimmy’s ear. “And I’m sorry.” Then he kissed the dead child’s cold forehead, lay back the boy’s head on a pillow of mud, and rose to his feet.

—Suzanne?

He just got here, Ronnie. He’s fine—he’s a little confused, but he’s fine.

—Please tell him I’m sorry he didn’t have any cake.

I will, Ronnie, I promise.

—Does he look happy?

Oh, he sure does. He’s got so many new friends to meet. He looks like such a nice boy.

—Don’t never let him be lonely, okay?

No one here is lonely Ronnie. We’ve got you to thank for that.

—I love all of you so much. You know?

Of course we do, Ronnie. And we love you, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got a belated birthday party to throw for a certain someone…

And so here he was, part of the Gang (along with Jimmy’s dad, who acted no differently tonight than he had last night or the night before), heading into the bar down the street.

Ronnie thought he might actually have an extra beer tonight—not that he had beer all that often, but this place didn’t ask for I.D. and, besides, Ronnie could pass for twenty-one even though he’d just turned seventeen.

He sat at a large table with Jimmy’s dad and the other men from that day’s crew and listened to them talk about the fucking economy and the fucking energy crisis and the fucking gas lines and that fucking Carter the fucking peanut farmer president and their aching fucking backs and how they’d like to fuck this waitress or that one who was serving them.

“Doggy-style,” Ronnie said, because it seemed polite to join in the conversation. All of the men burst out laughing, a few of them slapped him on the back and said things like, “You’re okay, kid,” or “I like the way you think.” Jimmy’s dad—everybody called him “Slugger” but somehow Ronnie figured that wasn’t his real name—put an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder and slurred, “Damn straight, doggy-style—that way you don’t have to cover their head with a paper bag.” Ronnie smiled because he wanted everyone to think he felt like One Of The Guys.

In a way, it made him sad that he’d never see any of them again after tonight. A couple of them had been real nice to him.

After about an hour most of the men left, but Ronnie stayed behind along with three or four others, including “Slugger” Stiles, who was now on his second game of pool. For this game, he’d gotten the biker-type he was playing against to make a “…small wager—just to make it more interstin’, y’know?” Both men had placed twenty-dollar bills on the edge of the table.

One of the other men tapped Ronnie on the shoulder and leaned in. “Now, you watch this asshole fall for old Slugger’s hustle. See how Slugger’s kinda wobbly on his feet? He’s a bit drunk, but he ain’t that drunk. He’s gonna lose this game—not by too much, mind you, but enough that the other fellah’s not gonna think twice about upping the next game to fifty bucks. I seen Slugger come in here on a busy night like this and walk out of here at closing time with damn near a thousand dollars in his pocket.”