When the burgers were done, Jordan scooped them off the grill onto a plate Kyle held out for him. As the other guests jostled for a position at the table, grabbing paper plates and burger buns and spoons full of potato salad, Matt wandered to the bar again. His glass was running low. To Vic, he asked, “Fix me a plate, will you? I’ll be right there.”
At the bar he stopped to look back. Vic’s bulk made him easy to spot among Kyle’s other friends. His white muscle T-shirt gleamed in the setting sun, making the skin on his arms look darker than it really was. His bald pate shone from the liberal amount of sun block Matt had rubbed onto it in the car on their way to the cookout; the black tattoo on the back of his neck glistened with sweat. For a long moment Matt stood there, leaning against
