From the end of the block, their yard was a green raft in a sea of scorched grass. It was all Larry, out there every night, spraying, killing, coaxing. Our yard used to look just as nice—not a scrap of paper or stray weed—until my dad moved out. The yard was the last to go. First it was a shutter we lost in a storm, and then a broken porch board, and then the paint started peeling off the garage. For a while we had Scott to send up on a ladder or handle the heavy lifting. But now that Scott’s gone, too, my mother’s bar for what’s acceptable keeps getting lower and lower. I was wondering what it would take to get on one of those home makeover shows when Lisa’s storm door swung open and Foley stepped out. My brain backfired: What’s he doing here? The urge to tackle him was strong but so was the need to run. I spun in place and shot across the lawn, not caring about Larry’s grass. “Hey, Trace!” Foley called, pounding down the stairs. His sneakers slapped the sidewalk behind me, but I gave him the finger and kept going.
