I set my jaw tight, coming up with an emergency plan. If I felt any stirring down there, I would force myself to think about the toilet at Fat Ernst’s. That would be enough to kill any desire in anybody.

Misty put my 30.06 into the gun rack in the back window with the Anschütz. As I lifted myself up and into the seat, she turned the engine over, saying, “I know just the place.”

That got my attention, because I figured we’d simply go over to her father’s ranch, out into the hills. But if we weren’t going to her place … where could we go? Fat Ernst’s toilet!—Fat Ernst’s toilet, I reminded myself.

Misty cranked the radio dial up and some god-awful modern country music filled the cab. At least it wasn’t “Sweet Home Alabama.” She jerked the truck into gear and stomped on the gas. I held on to the armrest tight, trying not to make it look obvious.

She didn’t say much during the ride, just bobbed her head along with the inane music, hair-sprayed blond hair jittering slightly. That was okay. I didn’t know what the hell to say anyway. Instead, I triedto keep an eye on where we were, stealing sidelong glances at her tight jeans. After a while, I figured I’d better say something, and stammered out, “Sorry to hear about your dad.” I winced, realizing I had just repeated the same goddamn thing that Fat Ernst had said. “I, uh, lost my dad too.”

Misty shrugged. “Thanks. It’s okay.” She barely slowed down when she hit the highway and headed east, up into the hills toward the reservoir. She said, “I keep wondering if I’m supposed to feel worse. Dad wasn’t … he had a good heart in there somewhere, maybe sometimes. But I didn’t like how he treated Mom.” She glanced sideways and gave me a cold smile. “And ever since I started seeing boys, me and Dad never got along at all.”

The truck followed the highway farther up into the foothills, up past the long, straight bank the Army engineers had built to contain the Split Rock reservoir. Then she steered the Dodge onto a narrow dirt road that ran parallel to Stony Creek for a ways before it opened out into a huge gravel pit. I’d never been here, but I realized exactly where we were. The Quarry.

The Quarry was part of an abandoned sand and gravel plant that had stood at the edge of Stony Creek. When they had exhausted the supply, the company moved on, taking over a place farther downstream, leaving behind over three acres of wide, empty craters. This was where the juniors and seniors at the high school came to party every Friday and Saturday night, a place that was whispered about in the halls by the younger, less-than-cool kids. I’d heard a lot of stories about this place, exaggerated tales of drunken fights and urgent backseat sex. The Quarry had seemed, to me at least, about as far away as the surface of the moon.

And here I was. With the one and only Misty Johnson, no less. Misty had been the star of many of the stories, but I couldn’t think about that now. I’d save those thoughts for later.

The Dodge slid to a stop in a surge of gravel near the entrance and Misty killed the engine. She pointed at a pile of rusted oil barrels at thefar end of the crater, over a hundred yards away. “Go set up some beer cans on those. We’ll use ’em for targets.”

I was about to ask where the beer cans were when I looked down. Dozens of empty beer cans and bottles lay scattered across the gravel like wounded soldiers after a terrible battle. I climbed out and had a sudden flash of irritation at being ordered around like a servant, but what was I going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. I collected five empty, sticky Budweiser cans and held them against my chest as I jogged through the puddles and mud toward the pile of barrels like an obedient puppy.

I pulled one of the barrels down, rolling it against several that were standing upright. Then I set the cans up, propping them one by one up against the barrels behind the barrel lying on its side. This way, I could track the path of the bullets by wherever they left holes in the barrels around the cans.

When I got back, Misty already had the rifle loaded, bracing it casually on her hip.

I skirted around a blackened fire pit and felt something stick to the bottom of Grandpa’s boot. I twisted my ankle around and reached down to pull off whatever it was, when I saw it, twisted and semitransparent, wedged into the waffled sole. I flinched, jerking my hand away.

For a heart-stopping second, I thought it was one of the worms. Then I figured out what it was, even though I’d never seen one before. A condom. Used, by the look of it. My stomach rolled and dropped somewhere down between my feet. A hot, tight feeling crawled over me, scary and exciting at the same time. I looked up and Misty winked at me again. I shrugged and tried to grin back, scraping off the condom on the gravel.

“So, what do we do first?” she asked.

“Well, we need to brace the rifle, get it steady, find out where it’s shooting.” I looked at the truck. It was too high; we couldn’t brace the rifle across the hood. “You got a blanket, or something like that?” I asked. “We’re gonna have to lie down.”

Misty gave me an amused look and I suddenly realized what that had sounded like. I giggled nervously. “I mean, you need a pad … or something … to, uh, put on the ground,” I finished lamely, sweeping my hand out to indicate the rough gravel.

She handed the rifle to me. I carefully laid it out on the tailgate, examining the scope as she opened the door. Misty came back and set a balled-up blanket next to the gun, saying, “Will this work?”

“That’ll work, uh, just fine.” I shook out the blanket, trying to ignore the slightly musky smell, and it fluttered out to the ground. I smoothed it down and grabbed the rifle, kneeling on the blanket. Misty dropped to her knees next to me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Fat Ernst’s toilet, I kept reminding myself, and managed to focus on the rifle instead.

“Okay. Go ahead and lie down,” I told Misty. She gave me another bemused snicker and leaned forward until she was on her stomach. “Get into, uh, a prone position. Okay, good. Prop yourself up on your elbows there, at an angle, and”—I almost said and spread your legs a little, but caught it just in time, choking out—“and, and there you go.” I handed the rifle to Misty, desperately trying not to look at how the fabric of her jeans clung to the ripe, curving cheeks of her ass. Fat Ernst’s toilet …

She settled into position, left elbow forward just a little, right arm out to the side.

“Okay good, good. Now, when it feels right, go ahead and take a shot.” I had barely finished the sentence when she pulled the trigger. A distant puff of dust, just about five inches over one of the barrels. She jerked the bolt back, then slammed it home.

“Give yourself a sec, then take another.” Again, the rifle cracked before I finished. Another little burst of gravel, this time off to the right of the barrel. “One more time.” The bullet whizzed above the barrel once again.

“Okay, hang on.” Still kneeling, I bent over the scope, and gently inserted a dime into one of the two adjustable knobs. I counted four clicks as I twisted the dime counterclockwise. “Try it again.”

The first round was off to the right, but the second shot nailed the can, crumpling the top half and sending it flying. “Nice shot,” I said, reaching for the box of shells just as Misty pulled the trigger once more. A dry snap; the gun was empty.

I inserted the dime into the second knob, twisting it clockwise for two clicks. Then I loaded the rifle, handed it back to Misty.

She hadn’t moved; her eyes were still focused on the cans at the far end of the quarry. As she concentrated, I couldn’t help but steal a quick glance at her behind. I ripped my eyes away and handed the rifle back to her. She fired off the five rounds in rapid succession and missed every time, throwing the bullets all around the can.