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eat and staring out the bottom edge of the window at a pair of burned-out row houses.

“I’ve never seen so many boarded-up places,” Dan went on, almost in a whisper. “I heard on the news they’re called zombie houses, ’cause they look like only zombies could live in ’em.” Then he turned and looked at Billy, and in a louder voice said, “Why don’t we just go get some beer, maybe even a bottle of Jack. We can hang out near the state store, and when one of those illegal migrants comes out, we’ll pay him to go back in and get us a bottle.”

Billy looked over and saw that Dan was highly anxious, his legs moving rapidly up and down as he looked out the window.

Billy laughed. “Dude, we can always do that. Don’t worry. This is an adventure . . .”

An adventure? Dan thought.

“. . . I’ve done this same thing four, five times. Seriously. It looks worse than it is. These guys just want to make a buck.”

After a long moment, Dan said, “So, how’s it work?”

“Just like the drive-through window at a fast-food place.”

“What? You shitting me?”

Billy shook his head.

“You pull up to the corner,” he explained, “and crack a window. Dude is working the corner. He comes up and you give him your order. Then he takes the money and signals a guy who’s sitting on the stoop at the end of the block. Then you drive down to the other guy, who then is coming back from wherever they stash the weed. He comes up to the window, passes you the stuff, then you drive off. Fast food, fast weed. And I’m gonna super-size our order, so we can sell one zip to pay for ours.”

“It’s that easy?”

Billy nodded.

“Yep. That easy. We’ll be out of here and back home in no time. Hell, we can even swing by the state store if you want.”

—

They made a right turn, onto Jasper Street. There were two black men standing on the corner, each looking in different directions, scanning the street, then turning and talking with the other. Dan couldn’t tell for sure but the skinnier of the two did not look much older than he and Billy. They wore dark jeans, high-top boots, and heavy winter coats over cotton hoodie sweatshirts, one black and one gray. The skinny one had the gray hood covering his head. The big guy had his shaved head exposed. Both had their hands in the belly pockets, stretching them.

As Billy drove toward the corner, the skinny one nudged the big guy with his elbow, gestured with his head toward the approaching car, then started down the sidewalk.

Billy rolled to a stop at the curb, then let down his window halfway.

The big guy leaned toward the window, then brought out his left hand, his fingers gripping the top of the open window.

Bet that other hand’s got a gun, Billy thought.

The big guy’s scalp and forehead glistened. His face was coarse, the skin pitted. His eyes were bloodshot, cloudy, dull. They darted from Billy to Dan then to the backseat then back to them.

“What up, bro?” Billy said.

The big guy glared at him. “I ain’t your homey. What you want?”

“I was here last month. You remember?”

“No,” the big guy said, shaking his head. Then he let out a big laugh. “All you white boys from the ’burbs look the same!”

When he laughed, Dan saw that the guy’s teeth looked like they were rotting. In his mind, photographs from a school textbook popped up.

Meth mouth, he thought, remembering that the caustic chemicals used in the making of methamphetamine literally disintegrated enamel, reducing teeth to black stubs.

The guy suddenly jerked his head to look over his shoulder. Then he looked back, first staring at Billy then at Dan.

“Who’s this guy?”

Dan’s stomach knotted.