“I think…I can just about…fly.”

“Tommy, if you jump off that swing again you’re dad’s going to tear the whole set down.”

With a huff, Tommy ceased his leg pumpin and slumped in the plastic seat. He felt like his friend was being a killjoy, but he was right all the same. The threat had been voiced enough times, the last time complete with a red face and bulging forehead vein.

As the swing slowed, Tommy suggest, “What about the old Murphy place?”

His friend shook his head.

“The East Quarry?”

A frown.

“Dime store?”

Rolling eyes.

“I know where my dad hid the lighters and butane.”

“Before these ideas get any worse,” his friend said with a wisdom beyond his scant eleven years, “I heard Jenny’s sheepdog has a wound of some sort.”

“So?”

“Supposedly, there’s pus involved.”

With an eager hop Tommy was off the rapidly slowing swing, “Sold! Bikes or creek trail?”

“Bikes. My mom says if I muddy another pair of school pants she’ll send me to school in lederhosen.”

“You’d look good in lederhosen.”