“I think we have to test it and see,” Carter said.

And so it began.

Ten minutes later, we stood inside Eliza’s bright orange room with our equipment. Eliza’s room was decorated like an artist’s studio, since she was the “creative type.” Carter knew better than to go anywhere near her artwork. Tonight we’d rewired her computer monitor so every time she clicked her mouse the screen would change colors, and we’d filled her sock drawer with flyers for foot fungus cream.

But the joya de la corona was the alarm clock we’d stored under her bed: we’d set it to play the Beatles’ “Help!” at 4:00 a.m. and we’d hooked it up to Carter’s water gun so that if she tried to pull it out from underneath her bed, she’d get drenched.

“This isn’t too mean, is it?” I asked.

“Nah,” said Carter, “she’s been having trouble with the jetlag. This is the perfect way to restart her system.”

I considered this and decided to agree with him. There was no better cure for sleeping issues than a splash in the face. Joking, of course, but we had to justify this to ourselves somehow.

“This is going to be epic,” I felt like an eight-year-old boy again. It was my second favorite feeling of the evening, second to earlier when . . . stop, Nick.

Carter kicked the water gun securely under his sister’s bed. “You know, I bought two more Super Soakers . . . want to let them taste the fresh air?”

“Definitely. Those guns need us.”

We raced to his attic, forgetting to be quiet for his mom. Carter pushed me against the thin railing and I almost tumbled down the stairs, but it was all worth it when we reached his grassy yard and turned loose the rusty spigot to fill neon orange tanks the size of my forearm.

The O’Connors’ heated pool remained uncovered for probably the last weekend of the year. We kicked off our shoes and socks, since there was a good chance we’d end up in the water. Neither of us cared if our shirts or sweatpants got wet, but shoes take forever to dry. Plus, I had these fresh blue Nikes and if those got ruined my life would be over.

It was well past nightfall, but Carter and I knew every inch of his backyard. In good form, we waited for both our weapons to be filled with ammo before commencing in battle. The second I screwed the plastic cap onto my tank, Carter tore into the blackness where he’d wait to either hunt or be hunted.

I stepped suspiciously towards the pool—if he wanted to jump out at me, he’d have to reconcile with the water. A warm breeze rustled through the trees, stirring crickets and spooking squirrels, who scurried on the bark and gave away that Carter was not, in fact, hiding in a tree.

The concrete edge of the pool dug into my knees as I crouched and listened for movement. If Carter could’ve blasted me there, he would’ve, which meant he had to be somewhere out of reach . . . shadows squared against Ms. O’Connor’s favorite hydrangeas, right before the white picket fence that separated their yard from the neighbor’s. One of the bushes’ shadows stretched longer than the others.