Kevin had texted him the address a few hours earlier, and suggested the time. Nine P.M. Jason glanced at the clock: 8:15. His stomach was in knots.
Why, why, why?
After one more check in the mirror, he grabbed his leather jacket and car keys, and off he went.
To do what? What? What?
Kevin lived off Monroe Avenue, in a turn-of-the-century Gothic converted into two apartments, one up and one down. Jason parked a couple doors down. He had ten minutes to go before he would be fashionably late, so he fiddled with the radio while he studied the house. The downstairs was dark, and there was one light on upstairs in one of the front rooms.
While Jason searched for a station that didn’t play junk, he remembered a high school band trip to Philadelphia for the Thanksgiving Day parade. On the fir
