Ben DayJANUARY 2, 1985
3:10 P.M.
Trey’s truck smelled like w**d, sweat socks, and sweet wine cooler that Diondra had probably spilled. Diondra tended to pass out while still holding a bottle in her hand, it was her preferred way to drink, to do it til it knocked her out, that last sip nearby just in case. The truck was littered with old fast-food wrappers, fish hooks, a Penthouse, and, on the fuzzy mat at Ben’s feet, a crate of cartons labeled Mexican Jumping Beans, each box featuring a little bean wearing a sombrero, swooshes at its feet to make it look like it was bouncing.
“Try one,” Trey said, motioning at it.
“Nah, isn’t that supposed to be bugs or something?”
“Yeah, they’re like beetle larvae,” Trey said, and gave his jack-hammer laugh.
“Great, thanks, that’s cool.”
“Oh s**t,
