We pull up to the house just after 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

Ricky's car shudders and sputters as he puts it in park.

Then he turns the engine off, and the silence of the neighborhood bears down on us.

Good. The last thing we need is some old dipshit walking past, wanting to stop and have a chat,

telling us about his childhood during the Great Depression

when you had to walk 20 miles to school, uphill both ways. I know it's a sleepy neighborhood,

and I know it's mostly retirees that live around here. I also know that three o'clock in the afternoon

is nap time for many of them. This is the place? Tina asks from the backseat.

Yup, I say for my place in shotgun. Kind of a dump, huh? Tina nods absently, staring up at the old

Victorian-style house. The white paint is chipping, and the once-black decorative shutters

flanking each window are now a dull gray.

The yard has been recently trimmed and looks good.

It's really the only part of the property that does look good.

And that's because I worked my ass off to trim all the weeds and mow the lawn the day before yesterday.

Ricky is staring up at the house,

and I know he'll need some reassurance before we go in.

It took some convincing to get him to come straight here after school in the first place.

He's kind of a bitch.

But he's the one with the car, so what can you do?

Next to Tina in the backseat is Drake.

The two of them are dating, but I know it's just a phase.

Tina will come around soon.

...