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into a living room, two rumpled sofas were arranged at angles, with a large circular coffee table in the middle. Various mismatched chairs were lined up along the other wall like some hastily furnished frat house.
    In one of the cushier of chairs, a young woman with long hair sat, intently weaving some kind of macramé plant holder. She gave us both a glance, but didn’t greet us.
    Rising from the opposite sofa, a young man greeted us. With his conservative haircut, an Izod shirt, tan pants and loafers, he appeared to have just arrived from a Young Republicans meeting. Everett’s change of clothes had been unnecessary.

    He shook hands, and half-attempted some sort of soul hand slap with Everett. “Holly’s little brother, huh?”

    “Yessir.”

    “Where’s she?”

    “Oh, she had to work late.”

    “And this is?” Mr. Young Republican appraised me with a suspicious glance.

    “Reid. He’s cool.”

    Momentarily surprised that Everett hadn’t invented a fake name for me, I waved and stood still, worried that I might fumble the pseudo-ethnic handshake.

    “So, what can I do ya for?”

    “Um, Holly said, a half ounce?”

    “What kind?”

    “Oh.”

    In another room, a phone rang.

    “Hold on. Have a seat.”

    We sat close together on the other sofa. Young left the room.

    For the first time, I saw Everett become uneasy. He leaned toward me, quietly singing the lyrics of the song blasting through the stereo as a sort of instruction. “Surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away, ay.”
    Macramé girl smiled at us, but said nothing.
    The Young Republican (I never heard his name) returned, pulled a drawer from under the coffee table and casually tossed out four medium-sized bags stuffed with pot. “We got … some shitty local, Mexican Gold, Mexican Red, and Hawaiian. That stuff has the biggest kick.”

    “Oh. Same price?”

    “No.”

    Some financial discussion ensued. I remained calm, outwardly, and by that I mean I was stock-still.

    Negotiations settled, and the Gold was chosen. Everett handed over some cash. Mr. Young withdrew a large cluster of pot and placed it in a smaller plastic bag, then measured its weight on a tiny scale and handed it over. Just as Everett pocketed it, a series of loud knocks rattled the front door.
    Yosemite Sam jumped to action, stomping toward the door. At the same moment, Mr. Young abruptly reached into the drawer and withdrew a large black pistol.
    I visibly tensed. Everett clutched my knee, his white knuckles betraying his otherwise outward calm. Macramé girl sighed, annoyed, and retreated into a back room.
    “Easy,” Young soothed, hovering his palm over the gun.
    Whoever Yosemite Sam met at the door was in an audibly argumentative mood.
    Mommy’s all right, Daddy’s all right. They just seem a little weird…

    “How old are you boys?”

    “Nineteen,” Everett blurted unconvincingly.

    “How about,” Young glared toward the increasingly loud discussion out front, “you boys go out the back door.”

    “Now?” Everett asked.

    “Now. Slowly. Where are you parked?”

    “Across the street,” I said.

    Everett glared at me.

    “Go out through the yard. There’s a fence with a door. Walk around the block and, well, good night.”

    We did, passing macramé girl in the kitchen, who was inspecting a jar of pickles.

    Once in the dark back yard, our pace quickened. After closing the rusty back fence door, we ran down an alley, momentarily confused.

    “Shit!” Everett hissed.

    “This way.”

    “Wait! Just wait.”

    Everett checked his pockets, more concerned about the whereabouts of his purchase.

    “What are you–”

    “I might have to ditch it.”

    “We are not going back in there.”

    “I know. I just–”

    “Come on.”

    “Where?”

    “To the car. We are done.” I jangled the car keys as a taunt.

    Surprised, then near chuckling, Everett held his hands up in surrender. “Okay.”

    He followed as I instinctively