Casey came back from summer school one day and his parents had their bags packed. They were going to a hotel across town. They hadn’t told him they were having the house painted. Casey got upset and they fought. His mother shouted at him loud and close, spraying him with spittle: “You goddamned fuckhead piece of turd!" His father shrugged. Casey decided he’d rather stay on the enclosed porch for the next week. On the day they painted that, he would sleep in the garage. The next afternoon, a couple of guys in crinkly white jumpsuits invaded, moved the furniture into the centers of all the rooms and coated the walls with colors like Toffee Crunch and Quaking Grass. Sleeping on the porch frustrated Casey, but he always stuck to his principles, even when it made him look foolish. His gangly legs could barely fit on the sofa, and the house didn't have air conditioning. That Friday, the temperature broke the 1949 city record. Casey woke up hung over on Saturday, his naked limbs rubbery-slick with sweat and tangled with the legs of a girl he barely remembered meeting. Someone's cousin from Tuscon. Trying to get more comfortable without waking her, he flopped over and fell off the couch on his butt. A car pulled into the driveway, but he didn't hear it.

JAMES HANNAHAM