“You’ll still be smiling when this place burns down on top of us.”

“For someone who put two guys in the hospital—”

“Don’t go there,” said Poe.

“I wouldn’t.”

“You know I think you’re an alright guy, Mental. Just wanted to throw that out, in case you could consider my opinion.”

“You could probably walk onto any football team out there. They’ve got lots of colleges, it’s like Baywatch.”

“Except everyone I know lives here.”

“Call that coach from the New York school.”

Poe shrugged. “I’m happy for you,” he said. “You’re gonna make it, just like your sister. Right down to the rich guy you’ll end up marrying. Some sweet old man, you’ll do the circuit in San Francisco…”

There was a pause as they looked around the hideout. Poe got up and found a piece of cardboard and set it down again to lie on. “I’m still drunk,” he said. “Thank God.” He lay back on the cardboard and closed his eyes. “Ah Christ, my life. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Boxcar Isaac, that’s my new name.”

“Loved by sailors.”

“Duke of all hoboes.”

Poe grinned. “If that’s your way of apologizing, I accept.” He rolled onto his side and wrapped his football jacket around him. “Might rest my eyes a minute. Make sure you wake me up the second it stops raining.”

Isaac kicked him: “Get up.”

“Just let me be happy.”

Isaac went back to watching the fire. Seems to be drawing—won’t die of carbon monoxide. Kick him again. No. Let him be. Probably pass out. Anytime he sits still. Not like you—barely fall asleep in your own bed. Wouldn’t even close your eyes in a place like this. Wish he was coming with. He looked around at the old machines, old rafters, cracks of gray light through the boarded-up windows.