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to believe that if I did the right thing or at least tried to be good, nothing too bad would happen to me. I used to believe that life was fair. I learned different. Right now I don’t care what-all I used to believe. Right now all I care about is what I know I’m going to do!
    I’m gonna take the car again—and that’s that!
    Don’s bought new tires, new carpeting, and new Corvette floor mats. He’s let me help him put even more chrome on the engine. We put on a new alternator and water pump, both of them chrome, and he had the old intake manifold replaced with a new, special one from Edelbrock.
    But he’s also installed a gray tank that takes up almost all of the tiny cargo space behind the seats.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I ask him, staring at the tank set in steel brackets. It looks kind of like a scuba diver’s air tank.
    Don smiles and says, “That’s the latest improvement to this nasty girl. It’s a nitrous oxide system—NOS.”
    I ask, “So what’s it do?” Sometimes I have to remind him that I’m not yet the same level of gearhead that he’s becoming.
    â€œSee this?” he says, pointing to a red switch on the center console. I nod. Don flips up the red switch, and underneath is another switch, a small silver one.
    I joke, “Ejection seat?”
    Don smiles. “Kind of. See this?” He reaches back and touches the silver knob on the top of the gray tank.
    I nod again.
    He explains, “This handle turns on the nitrous. Then, when you flip on this”—he touches the silver switch under the red protective one—“then push the gas pedal to the floor, that kicks the nitrous in.”
    â€œAnd what’s that do?”
    â€œIt gives you two hundred extra horses.”
    I try to think what the ’Vette would feel like with that much extra power. It’s almost unimaginable.
    Almost. But I can imagine real good.
    I stare at the gray tank, remembering the procedure Don’s just explained; two hundred extra horses.
    I mutter, “Two hundred, that’s a lot.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Don says. “That’s a shitload! And, of course, we’re talking about nitrous, a potentially explosive gas—so if something goes wrong at the wrong time, you can pretty quickly become a three-hundred-eighty-horsepower, hundred-fifty-mile-per-hour fireball flying into a million fiberglass pieces and human body parts.”
    I don’t say anything. What’s there to say to that?
    But it’s sure something to think about!

SEVEN
    The next time I’m ready to go over and steal Don’s car again, I phone Wally first.
    â€œDon’t do it,” Wally says. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
    I laugh. “You always have a bad feeling.”
    â€œNo,” Wally insists. “Really, man, this time it’s for real. I mean, think about it—what can make such a stupid risk worthwhile?”
    â€œIt’s worth it,” I say.
    â€œYou’re a moron,” Wally says, and hangs up the phone.
    It’s Wednesday again; Don is out of town until tomorrow afternoon. No rain or even any serious clouds, just a tiny sliver of new moon.
    Getting the car away from the house is much less stressful the second time. Thoughts of arrest, conviction, embarrassment, and totally screwing over Don barely enter my mind as I clear the car out of the garage again and head down Cedar Road.
    Although I don’t have a real clear plan yet, I want to go for a longer ride than before. I promise myself that I’ll leave the nitrous alone. Stupid as I might sometimes be, the idea of turning into a human fireball doesn’t sound like much fun.
    At the bottom of Cedar Road I go right onto Country Homes Boulevard heading south, toward downtown Spokane. Country Homes is a well-lit street. What’s the point of driving a car as beautiful as the ’Vette if nobody sees you doing it?