“Fuck,” Nathan said, “you mean the government has this big-ass file on everybody’s footprint?”

But Wes explained that, no, they take the footprint and if they catch you and it matches, it’s evidence.

“CSI,” Donnie said “We’ll walk on the driveway. Not the dirt.”

“They can still pick them up from concrete and asphalt.”

“Yeah?”

“Church.”

“Fuck. Okay. We leave our shoes in the bushes when we get there.”

Nathan was frowning. “Can they take, like, sock prints?”

Wes told him he didn’t think they could do that.

Nathan asked, “That cop. Is he the guy I saw at your house. Jon?”

“No, he’s into computers. He’s my mom’s friend.”

“She’s got two boyfriends?”

Wes shrugged and didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

Donnie said, “So, I was saying: First, we get into the garage and get the bikes.”

Nathan said, “Dude, I heard you say that before. ‘First.’ That means there’s a second or something. After we get the bikes.”

Donnie smiled. He tapped his combat jacket. “I brought a can.”

“Fuck,” Nathan said. “This isn’t the game. We’re just helping you out, him and me.”

Wes was: “Yeah! Dude, come on. Let’s just get the bikes and book. That’s what I’m on for. Tag him again? What’s the point?”

“I’m tagging the inside of his house. Just to show the asshole.”

“Not me,” Wes said.

“You don’t have to do anything, either of you bitches. Am I asking you to do anything? Either of you?”

“I’m just saying,” Nathan grumbled.

There was silence. They looked around the school yard, kids walking home, kids being picked up by parents, moms mostly, in a long line of cars in the driveway. Tiff looked their way again. Donnie brushed his hair out of his eyes and when he looked again, she’d turned away.

And she’d be interested why? he thought, sad.

Wes said, “Hey, come on, Darth. We’re with you. Whatever you want, tag or trash. We’re there. I’ll help you get the bikes but I’m not going inside.”

“All I’m asking. You two. Lookouts.”

“Fuck, amen,” the big kid said.

Nods all around.

“Roll?” Donnie asked.

A nod. They headed for the gate in the chain link that led to the street.

Donnie and his crew. He didn’t share with them what was really going down.

What he’d tapped inside his jacket wasn’t a can of Krylon. It was his father’s .38 Smith & Wesson pistol.

He’d made the decision last night—after the son of a bitch, his father, pulled out the branch, tugged Donnie’s pants down and whaled on him maybe because of the bike or maybe for some other reason or maybe for no fucking reason at all.

And when it was over, Donnie staggered to his feet, avoided his mother’s damp red eyes and walked stiffly to his room, where he stood for a while at his computer—his keyboard was on a high table, ’cause there were plenty of times he couldn’t sit down—playing Assassin’s Creed, then Call of Duty, GTA 5, though he didn’t shoot or jump good, you can’t when your eyes are fucked up by tears. In Call of Duty, Federation soldiers kept him and the other Ghost elite special ops unit pinned down and his guys had got fucked-up because of him.