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one hand on the hood of the car as she works her way around it. The hood is too hot and she yanks her hand away when it touches the metal. She jabs her fingers under the back seat door handle and lets Atlas out.
    â€œCome on, buddy, we’re here.” She’s wearing a black skirt, black tights and a short-sleeved maroon shirt. Something glutinous wavers around her in the heat. She carries a depth of scent that is familiar, like beef gravy, but with a sharp edge.
    â€œGod, it’s hot,” she says. She teeters over the lawn wearing chunky heels. “These freaking shoes are not right,” she says. “Winners, like three seasons ago.”
    â€œWhy are you wearing tights?” Lise asks, looking up at her from the towel.
    â€œThey told me I can’t do bare legs in this office. No open toes or whatever.”
    â€œEven in the summer?” I ask.
    Both women look over at me. “Even in the summer,” Krystal tells me.
    â€œI have pantyhose,” Lise says. “If you want. Summer hose, nude.”
    â€œAwesome,” Krystal says. “What colour nude?”
    They fall into this kind of shorthand whenever they’re together. It makes it obvious that they’ve known each other since high school, if only because they start to act like they’re in high school. The back of my neck gets itchy when I hear their banter. Atlas is standing on the grass in front of me.
    â€œHey Atlas!” I try. “Whatcha got there? Did you bring your truck? Huh?”
    â€œWell, they’re not orangey,” says Lise. “They’re light, you know, taupey.”
    Atlas nods at me, squats on the ground, and sucks on his bottom lip as he manipulates the opening of his yellow vinyl backpack. He pulls a red pickup truck out from the pack and hands it to me, I guess because I asked for it. “Thanks,” I say, and I take it from him.
    â€œCan I try them on?” Krystal asks Lise. “I’m dying in these stinkers.”
    It’s been about fifteen minutes since Lise applied her first coat of polish. She tests her toenails to see if they’re still tacky by gently tapping one of them with the back of a fingernail.
    â€œSure,” she says. “I’ll get them for you.” She pushes herself up off the towel. An imprint of her lower half rests in the folds of the pink terry cloth. She walks barefoot across the dry lawn, flattening sharp points of yellow grass into a line of matted footprints. The screen door shuts behind her with a hiss.
    â€œSo,” I say. Atlas is standing beside me and looking up at his red truck. I pass it from my left hand to my right hand and then back again. It’s made out of plastic and it feels cheap. I remember playing with real trucks when I was a kid. Our stuff used to be made out of metal . “What kind of job is it for, this interview?” I ask. I try not to meet Krystal’s eyes. She stands several feet away from me anyway.
    â€œI’m registered at a temp agency,” Krystal says. “So it’s office work.”
    â€œOh yeah? Where will you be working?”
    â€œWell, I don’t, like, have the whole job yet. I’m going to the interview.”
    Krystal directs her comments to my left arm. I have a tattoo of a jumping rabbit on my bicep. I know it’s an extraordinary piece of art, but does it have to take the place of my face in a conversation? Atlas watches the truck in my hands like a hound eyeing a soup bone. It looks like he has one big eye and one small one. Or at least, one is wider than the other. Or maybe it’s just slightly higher up on his face. I’m not making this up.
    â€œBut the interview,” Krystal says, “it’s at this law office, it’s downtown.”
    â€œOoh,” I say, without meaning to say it like that. To cover up, I add, “That should be swanky. The office is open on Saturday and everything, eh?”
    Krystal doesn’t