Mr. Cheney ducks low behind his steering wheel when the boys come out of the trailer park pushing a pickup. It jerks and a huge cloud of black smoke spits out of the tailpipe and the boys and the truck leap forward a few yards. Paul jumps in and slides behind the wheel as the driver gets out and heads into the store.

Good Lord, Jeff Loller.

How long has Paul been hanging around that overgrown delinquent?

Would barely know the man if Loller hadn’t taken one of his intro computer classes last year. Didn’t last. Once he realized they wouldn’t be sitting around playing Tetris and Flight Simulator he dropped out. Before that he was just a vaguely familiar face. Memorable in high school mostly because he was one of Bob Whelan’s cronies. By the time he’d come back from college and moved into the house down from Bob’s, Loller had faded entirely from his memory. Until he’d slouched into class looking much the same as he had eighteen years before.

And now Loller is buying liquor for his son.

The appeal for Paul is pretty clear. Loller is much like any number of the boyfriends his mother’s friends dragged through the house when he was small. Nothing like his father. Long hair. A motorcycle. Aimless. A bad cliché.

He watches his son in the other man’s truck, revving the engine to keep it from dying. Does he know how to drive it? Of course he does. He smokes and drinks and takes drugs and steals things and has sex; of course he knows how to drive. Did Loller teach him? The thought.

Jeff comes out of the store with a brown paper bag. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink from the bottle inside, then hands it to George and gets back in his truck, Paul jumping out the other side.

After he’s driven off and the boys have left with their bottle, Kyle waits several minutes, then runs across the street for his brandy. Just for a little relief.

– If you guys are gonna stay over tonight you can help with those rocks on Sunday.

Paul turns from the sink where he’s washing his hands with a gritty bar of Lava.

– What if we’re not staying over the whole weekend?

Mr. Whelan pops the tab on a can of Oly and pours it into one of the beer mugs he keeps in the freezer during the summer.

– Paul, if you manage to get through the weekend without spending a night here or eating at least one meal in my house, I will apologize on Monday for having made you shovel rocks. But until that jury is in, the cost of a hot and a cot is you lend a hand. Got it?

Hector takes his turn at the sink.

– I got it, Mr. Whelan.

Sitting at the kitchen table with his beer, George and Andy’s dad looks at Paul.

– You got it?

Paul wipes his hands on a dish towel and hands it to Hector.

– Yeah, no problem. Sir.

– Can that sir crap.

– Yes. Sir.

Mr. Whelan is bent over, unlacing his boots.

– You still planning on joining the Army, Paul?

– Yep.

– That smartass crap will not float. I didn’t serve myself, but I can tell you right now, that crap will sink like a turd made out of brick. And drag you with it.

Paul laughs.

– Yes, sir.

Mr. Whelan leans back and crosses his legs, flexing his toes in his filthy socks.

– See, if this was the Army and I was your sergeant, I’d be busy slapping you down and watching you do about five hundred pushups before I sent you down the hall to clean my toilet so my wife doesn’t have to do it this week.

He leans forward and tugs the back of his wife’s tanktop.

– How ’bout that, you like to have this punk clean the bathrooms for you this week?

She looks from the giant bowl of fruit salad she’s making.

– It’d be a nice change of pace from the messing up he does in there.

Andy comes in from the bathroom.

His mom squints at him.

– You feeling alright?

He shrugs.

– Sure, fine.

His mom puts the back of her hand on his forehead.

– You feel a little hot.

– It’s like a hundred degrees out. Everything’s hot.

– Well, drink something cold. Drink some Kool-Aid.

He gets the jug from the fridge.

Hector grabs two glasses from the cupboard.

– Let me get some of that.

Bob Whelan drinks his beer and watches the boys jostle around the kitchen, enjoying the noise and the roughhousing.

George comes in, hair wet from the shower. He takes the Kool-Aid jug from his brother and starts drinking directly from the spout.

His mom throws her hands in the air.

– Hey. Hey!

He stops drinking and wipes his lips and looks at his mom.

– What?

– A glass? Is it so much trouble to open the cupboard and take out a glass and use it?

– I’m just having a quick drink, why get a glass dirty?

His dad knocks the bottom of his mug on the table.

– Don’t talk back to your mom. You want a drink, you use a glass.

– Fine. Whatever. I’m not even really thirsty.

He opens the fridge door and puts the jug back and stands looking at the contents of the shelves.

His mom swings a towel at him.

– The door. You’re using energy. What’s in there isn’t gonna change. And I’m making dinner right now.

– I’m just seeing if there’s anything.

Mr. Whelan reaches with his foot and pushes the door closed.

– There’s plenty. But your mom said she’s making dinner and I’m paying the PG amp;E bills, so don’t stand with the door open. Got it?

George moves closer to his mom and looks at what she’s doing.

– Fruit salad?

– And sandwiches. It’s too hot to cook.

Bob snaps his fingers; three sharp shots.

– Hey, I said, got it?

George faces his dad.

– Yeah, I got it. Don’t stand with the door open. It wastes energy and energy costs money. I got it. You’ve said it a million times.

– So if you don’t want to hear it, stop doing it. Got it?

– Got it. Got it.

– You keep going with that attitude, Paul and Hector are gonna be heading for home and me and you are gonna be outside shoveling rocks right now. You got that?

George looks his dad in the eye.

– Yes. I got it. I’m sorry.

His dad points at his mom.

George looks at her.

– Sorry, Mom, didn’t mean to be a smartass.

She nudges him with an elbow and smiles.

– Mustard?

– Please.

She looks at her husband.

– Lettuce and tomato?

– The works, please. Thanks.

She cuts a cheese sandwich in half from corner to corner the way Andy likes it, puts extra mayo on Paul’s ham sandwich, and pickles on Hector’s, and brings it all to the table.

The boys scrape chairs and grab sandwiches and fistfuls of chips and start eating, pausing between bites just long enough to breathe and to wipe their mouths with paper napkins.

Bob bites into his sub and nods at his wife.

– S’good, babe. Thanks.

Hector bobs his head while he chews.

– Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Whelan.

Andy picks grapes from his fruit salad and pops them in his mouth one by one.

– Good salad, Mom.

George and Paul grunt through their stuffed mouths.

Bob takes a long swallow of beer and listens to the boys argue about a band called Rainbow and whether its lead singer should be allowed anywhere near Black Sabbath.

This had never been the plan.

Being a family man, having a wife and kids, let alone playing troop leader to a couple strays like Paul and Hector, had never been in the cards at all. He’d had other things on his mind altogether. And a wife like Cindy? How the hell did he manage that? Her plan, her parents’ plan anyway, had been Stanford. Hell, they’d never have crossed paths if she hadn’t started tutoring Amy. That hadn’t happened, Amy never would have brought her to that party, he never would have ended up making out with her, never would have gotten her pregnant with George, never would have gotten married. And all the rest that came after.