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then revvin’ his car to burst back at me, all the while lookin’ up at me with this triumphant smirk as if to say I got ya now, don’t I?
    I couldn’t take it anymore.
    I was about to explode.
    Then Keith sent the night in a whole new direction.
    He was rootin’ around down on the floor and came up with a dirty old can of Big 8 cola. Gave it a little shake and pretended to open it in my face. I never even blinked.
    —Hey, Bobby, I ever tell you about the time I fucked over this fella from the Goulds with a can of drink?
    —What? Hit him with it?
    —Christ, no. He was a big fella…I poured it in his gas tank.
    —What?
    —Oh yeah, it fucks everything right up. Ya often heard tell of sweetening up someone’s gas tank?
    I don’t know about Bobby, but I’d certainly heard tell of it. Someone did it to my father’s boat a couple of summers before. It was a hot topic around the house for a while. The government had given Dad a sentinel fishin’ license that summer. Him and my uncle Rick were the only ones in the Cove allowed out after cod. Dad and Rick were delighted to be back on the water, but a lot of people were pretty pissed off. But Dad wasn’t even allowed to take home a single fish so I don’t know what all the racket was about. They were to haul the trap every morning and whatever was caught had to be turned in to the fisheries for tests and stuff. They had to carry out some kind of tests themselves too, like recording the water temperature and wind conditions. Anyhow, about a week into it they were out at the mouth of the bay when the engine stalled. They tried all their tricks to get her goin’ but nothing worked. Then Rick opened the tank and found sugar spilt all around the rim. Right away they knew the engine was screwed, and they were pissed off, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had to row in out of it. Only thing was, when they went looking for the oars, they were gone. Probably tossed overboard the night before. On top of that the box of flares were emptied, so they couldn’t even shoot one off for help. And, worst of all, the lifejackets were missing. If you asks me, that’s attempted murder. Dad and Rick drifted out to sea for about half an hour before the wind turned. Imagine. They finally flagged down a tour boat outside Burnt Cove. The cops were back and forth to our house for a few days but nothing ever came of it. Dad is pretty sure he knows who done it but he won’t say. He likes to pick his moments too.
    Keith was gettin’ more and more animated as his story went on. Some guy in the Goulds was after shortchanging him on a draw.
    —’Course a bottle is better than a can, but when you’re stuck you’re stuck. All ya needs is a bit of stick or a pencil to hold open the airway. Pour the drink right in. If you spills a bit you can just sop it up with your shirttail. But, see, real sugar is messy and someone can see right away that the car is after being fucked with. Plus you have to go shaggin’ around with a funnel. But a can of this shit—
    He clenches the can of Big 8 in his fist and looks straight into my eyes as if making sure I’m fully graspin’ the tact in his little story. I nods and smiles. He don’t miss a beat.
    —…no mess. He don’t know what the fuck is going on. Goes to start his car and she won’t go. Sugar in the gas lines. I don’t know how it works, but it works. You can spoil the engine for good if it’s not flushed out quick enough.
    Bobby glanced sideways at me and rolled his eyes. But Keith seemed so proud of himself, baskin’ in the memory of his own mischief, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of him too.
    Francey was drivin’ normal again now. Probably thought we were talkin’ about him. I looked right at him and smiled just to make him paranoid.
    When we made it to the clearing Bobby pulled up next to the remains of the fire and Francey pulled in headfirst on the other side, near the edge of the woods. We all got out and