THE GRAY AREA
“What the hell’s all this?” I asked.
The front porch of the Cursèd Place was buried waist-deep in cases of beer and bales of toilet paper. Kilroy slouched indolently on a rickety lawn chair behind the smoldering chimney of his bong. His attention meandered back and forth between a delivery man wheeling another dolly full of beer toward the steps and a chubby brown kid carrying them one by one into the house.
“Gift from Judge.”
“Beer and toilet paper?”
“He asked if we needed anything, so I said we could use some beer and toilet paper. I figured we’d get a twenty-four pack of Keystone and a few rolls of whatever they use at the club, but…” He gestured toward the heaps of provisions.
“Ax and ye shall receive,” I said.
“I’ll say.”
The brown kid emerged from the house and
