– Hey, guys!

They all come out into the hall.

George moves toward the bikes.

– They back?

Andy is still looking in the garage.

– What is this shit?

George comes over.

– Oh, fuck.

Andy looks at him.

– What is it?

George looks over his shoulder at Hector and Paul.

– What’d you think?

Paul takes a look.

– Fuck me.

Hector moves Andy aside so he can see.

– What? Oh fuck.

They stare at trash bags spilling hundreds of empty cold and allergy medicine boxes, bottles, and foil packets; at gallon jugs of iodine tincture lined against the wall; heaps of matchboxes with the strike surface cut off; various cans and bottles of acetone, Red Devil Lye, methanol, muriatic acid, and Coleman’s camp fuel. A pingpong table in the middle of the garage is covered with an assortment of PVC fittings, flasks, Pyrex bowls, and pie tins. Baking sheets line a catering table against the wall, and two blow dryers are plugged into sockets next to a toaster oven with a shattered glass front. The row of tiny windows in the garage door are taped over with the same lowrider and skin magazine posters that cover the walls.

Paul takes a step forward.

– Fuck. Me.

George hooks the back of his shirt.

– C’mon, man, this shit can blow up.

Andy squeezes past Hector.

– What is it?

Paul jerks free of George and looks at the baking sheets, all of them covered in a coarse powder.

– Looks like the Great Brain doesn’t know it all. It’s a crank lab, man.

– What?

George grabs his brother’s shoulder.

– Stay out of there.

Andy shrugs him off.