Fallout (Crank 3)

at the corners of her eyes. Almost

forty, still beautiful. And single again.

WE GET TO THE HOUSE

A little before noon. Cars line up along

the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s

beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,

my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),

Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,

Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.

Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—

is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect

him to show this early, considering dinner

isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.

He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.

Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.

THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING

As soon as the front door opens.

If

the chiduckey tastes even half

as good as it already smells,

Nikki is going to get an extra,

extra special thank-you tonight.

Maybe that cooking show paid

off after all. Dad and Jake are

in the living room, watching Big

Ten football and slurping brew.

I poke my head through

the archway, feign interest. “Hey,

honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”

Jake stands, offers his right