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afford to offer because no one ever wins. Jocks around here are built for tackling and butt-slapping, not long-jumping, and it’s funny to watch them launch off the bank just to plummet into the Ditch. It’d be even funnier if they actually hit bottom, but since the Ditch is twenty-feet deep here and totally dry everywhere, the city stretches a net across about six feet down to catch the morons.
    “Let’s go,” I say, but before I can stand up, some kid stabs me in the eye with an inflatable sword.
    “Jesus Christ!” I knock the thing away and clamp my hands over both eyes, even though it’s only the left one that’s burning and probably infected with some sort of disfiguring bacterial disease. 
    “I’m telling Daddy you took the Lord’s name in vain!”
    I open my remaining eye and see exactly who I expected to see. My little sister Laramie with her stupid dark hair and her stupid tan skin and her stupid evil grin. What I did not expect to see was the happy little snake face painted on the mushroom-headed tip of her inflatable sword’s pink blade. 
    “What the?” I grab for the toy, but she whacks it hard against my wrist and takes off running.
    I turn to Brant, the heel of my left hand still pressed into my watery eye. He looks so solemn and shadowed under his cowboy hat that I’m not sure he even saw what happened.
    He sighs but doesn’t look my way. “Casper, I do believe your sister just stabbed you in the face with an inflatable penis snake. If that’s what you’re wanting to know.”
    I drop my hand but keep my eye squeezed shut. “Just checking.”
    Brant nods, takes the plastic straw out of his hatband, and places one end between his teeth. Then he tips his hat forward and stands, rolling his shoulders so his shirt rides up, and I get a glimpse of his boxer-briefs—dusky blue with a hole where the elastic and cotton are starting to part ways.
    I jump up quick.
    When he finishes his stretch, he drops his arm across my shoulders. “You know, Casper, some nights I go to sleep thinking I’m the weirdest thing in this town, but—”
    “Something weirder always comes along.”
    He pulls the straw from his lips and exhales. “Every damn time.”
    We make our way down the slope, careful not to step on the edges of the camouflaged and star-spangled blankets spread out beneath the Hickory Ditch-dwellers and their empty paper plates and crumpled chip bags. The cool, sweaty crook of Brant’s elbow soothes my sunburnt neck, but the casual weight of his arm threatens to buckle my knees. He is simultaneously breaking me down and holding me up and having no idea about any of it.
    And that’s the trouble with guys like Brant. They’re so sure of themselves, so far above speculation that they never think twice about moving in for a hug when you’re just looking for a handshake. They’ll ruffle your hair when they could pat you on the back, and instead of laughing at a joke, they’ll start an impromptu wrestling match. I’ve been avoiding these guys since puberty, but that was in Dallas where thirteen thousand people attended our church every week. There’s less than six thousand people living in Hickory Ditch, and less than two hundred of those people attend Harvest Mission, and less than forty of those people are in youth group, and less than five of those people are willing to be seen with me. Avoiding Brant is not an option.
    Maybe if we could go somewhere else, like First Methodist or Powerhouse, but churches here ain’t like churches elsewhere. You can’t come and go as you please. Our church in Dallas called itself a community; Harvest Mission calls itself a family. You can choose a new community any time you get sick of the old one, but you can’t join a new family, no matter how poorly you fit in with the one you’ve got. My grandparents grew up at Harvest Mission, my mother grew up at Harvest Mission, and now Laramie and I will finish growing up at Harvest Mission. 
    If someone had