HOME ON THE RANGE read the sign above the orange RV’s door, and sure enough, the dim trailer was stuffed inside with cowboy kitsch: Indian rugs, cow skulls, a lovingly lit photograph of some twink named Roy Rogers. An old television in a walnut case was playing grainy porn. Luke supposed it would pass the time.

Lowering himself onto a couch in the dark, he almost sat on a boy’s face by mistake. He jumped, turned back, apologized to the kid sprawled over the seat beneath him. The boy had a buzzed head and a dirty blond crotch and he gave Luke a carnivorous little smile that was the first welcome sight Luke had seen all night. It was the defensive tackle from the Stable Shootout.

“You sacked me at the game,” Luke said.

“It was an honor and a privilege.” The tackle sat up, handed Luke his beer. “Cheers.”

Luke hesitated, smiled back. “Cheers.”

They passed the bottle in silence for a time, watching the desultory porn, their knees just barely touching. Luke leaned against the arm of the sofa and unwittingly released a sigh.

“It’s a lot to handle, isn’t it?” the Stallion said finally.

“The nineties?” Luke said, nodding at the TV.

“All of this.”

Luke nodded, drank, said, “I don’t understand—are the guys here actually straight?”

“Not the angry ones.” The Stallion laughed. “The angry ones are gay as hell—the old dudes are good at spotting fags. But some of the dudes here are straightish, sure. They like to try some no-strings shit like they could in the city, see what the fuss is about. Mostly I think they like having a secret, you know? Getting out of trouble around home. Getting pampered.”

“And there’s drugs.”

The boy nodded. “And there’s drugs.”

“It’s kind of like a dream. At first, I mean.”

The Stallion hesitated before he drank. “It ain’t free, you know. Those Old Boys, they always want some gratitude from you eventually.”

Luke studied him. He saw a pain on the other boy’s face, the mark of something Luke knew would never be named. “Were you hiding in here?”

“Maybe I was just waiting for you.” The Stallion smiled, extended a slippery hand. “Bryan, by the way.”

“Luke.”

“How come you’re all the way over there, Luke?”

Mitchell Malacek found them joined together at the mouth a few minutes later. He waited until Luke looked up with a line of spit dangling from his chin. Mitchell said with a snicker, “Can I borrow your gloves? I swear I’ll get them—”

Luke waved vaguely toward the door. “They’re in the back of my truck. The gate’s unlocked.”

Luke forgot about Mitchell almost the moment he was gone, forgot all his earlier misgivings, forgot most everything. With every second his lips lingered on this boy with his toothy smile, Luke hoped that dawn would never come.

BETHANY

When Mitchell Malacek dropped the tail of the truck, Bethany had the rifle aimed directly at his forehead. His mouth dropped into a cartoon’s “Oh” of surprise.