Mitchell led Luke into a large room where hideous wallpaper peeled around a bank of rusted green lockers. An old bed was buried beneath a mountain of jockstraps and socks and jerseys. Costumes.

“Don’t let them see you with a phone,” Mitchell said, heading into an attached bathroom.

Luke tossed his jeans and his dusty shirt into a locker, plucked a pair of shorts off the bed, told himself he felt no misgivings about leaving his keys and his phone out of reach. Mitchell emerged from the bathroom with a grimy first aid kit and handed Luke a roll of gauze and an alcohol wipe.

“You guys think of everything,” Luke said.

Mitchell shrugged. “If you see something you want around town you can just take it. Nobody’s gonna hassle you anymore.”

In a cramped kitchen, Mitchell showed Luke a counter full of orange Gatorade coolers labeled TRASHCAN PUNCH, VODKA MONSTER, RUM. A pair of glass cutting boards rested near a rusted sink. The boards were covered with lines of powder. Arrayed behind the cutting boards were foil pouches that Luke saw contained lube, candy dishes full of tablets, empty pill bottles like he’d find at a pharmacy. FEEL FREE 2 TAKE HOME—COMPLIMENTS OF THE BAG BOYS.

“Do those guys in the living room play for Spricksville High?” Luke murmured to Mitchell.

“Better don’t ask questions,” Mitchell said. He sidled up to the counter, ran a thin line of crystal up his nose and plucked a small glass vial from a candy dish; the shape of it alone looked illicit. “Do you like poppers?”

“Are they sour?”

Mitchell grimaced, rubbing his nose. “You don’t drink it. Take one of the big ones—Garrett refills all this shit later. You want some Oxy? You want—oh what’s up, bro, where you been?”

The most beautiful redhead Luke had ever seen appeared with a boy of his own in tow and twisted Mitchell’s nipple with a sneer. Mitchell popped his nuts. Luke studied the floor until the redhead and his boy stepped past him.

“You’re sort of shy, aren’t you?” Mitchell said, leading Luke back toward the living room.

Luke smiled, shrugged. “Dylan must have been popular here.”

The living room suddenly went silent. Mitchell grabbed Luke by the wrist and yanked him outside.

“Let’s pretend you never said that name,” he said with his father’s political smile. “Now, some guys spend their whole night in Glory Days—that’s where the cards and the titty porn is.” Mitchell pointed at the red trailer, then turned to nod at the tall triple-wide Luke had seen earlier, the one with the big porch. Tomas Hernandez was stepping out of its door and tucking something into his sock as he walked, a cigarette on his lips. His fingers were shaking. “If you’re ever short on cash you can go in that one there but, well—you’ll see.”

Luke saw the dark spots in the dirt where his blood had fallen earlier. He remembered the cop with all the tattoos who had cut his thigh. He glanced again at that little black camper with its dark windows. “Do you get to keep coming here after you graduate?”