It’s a bad house. Sketchy. They should know better than to go in. But if they were the kind of kids who knew better they wouldn’t be here in the first place.

George races down the street, hits his front brake, and leans over his handlebars, popping the rear end of his bike into the air and holding the wheelstand for a beat before dropping back to the blacktop. He turns circles in front of the house, checking it out.

It’s dark. The peeling Dodge Dart in the driveway sits over long dry oil stains, untrimmed juniper bushes edge the lawn and screen the bottoms of the front windows. The gate to the backyard hangs askew, a piece of yellow nylon rope keeping it from swinging open. The sidewalk streetlamp is broken, unrepaired from when he shot it out with the pellet rifle last night.

Yeah, the house is sketchy. But that doesn’t change anything. They’re going in. He whips the bike out of its circles, knobby tires buzzing on the asphalt.

The others wait for him. Hector kneeling next to his bike, fiddling with the chain, putting on a show as if it has become derailed. Paul straddling his own bike, lifting one leg to lean far over the crotchbar, rescuing a half smoked Marlboro Red from the gutter. Straightening, he flicks some grit from the filter and puts it in his mouth while feeling at his pockets for a light.