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The scene opens in a cramped living room where a tiny sitcom blares from a microwave‑size TV. Trevor’s father, a heavy‑set man with pomaded hair who drinks Southern Comfort, spins a slurred monologue about being “the best seal trainer at SeaWorld” and bragging about an uncle named James who “burned” people with gasoline. He taunts the narrator and Trevor, who sit on a makeshift couch salvaged from a wrecked Dodge Caravan, passing a liter of Sprite and texting a boy in Windsor. The father’s voice drifts between absurd boasts and threatening anecdotes, and he mentions the scar on Trevor’s neck from a nail‑gun accident when he was nine. After a brief, hostile exchange, the narrator places the Sprite down, signaling it’s time to leave. Both teens slip out, grab their bikes, and ride away as the father’s drunken ramblings fade behind them.
They follow the Connecticut River on a warm autumn night, the moon high above the oaks. The river is described in vivid detail, with occasional floating bodies that trigger 911 calls, sudden fish die‑offs, and a rusted refrigerator that looks like a “brown face.” As they pedal, the narrator mentally maps the surrounding neighborhoods, naming a litany of residents: Sid, an Indian immigrant family selling Cutco knives; the Canino brothers, whose father is in jail and who hide heroin and a Glock; Marin, a Sears worker with gold jewelry who resists homophobic slurs; Mr. Carlton, the tenement landlord who once harassed the narrator; Big Joe’s sister, Sasha, Jake, and B‑Rab—all victims of overdoses, with B‑Rab later imprisoned for laptop theft; Nacho, a Gulf‑War veteran who once rescued a baby from a snow‑buried trunk. He also recalls the fire on Asylum Ave., the former asylum‑turned‑school for the deaf, and the Coca‑Cola bottling plant.
Leaving the “white side” of the river, they ride into East Hartford, then South Glastonbury, passing orchards of rotting apples and abandoned mansions. They stop on a fence; Trevor lights a cigarette, offers a Snickers, and muses about NBA player Ray Allen possibly living in one of the empty houses. He reflects that if Ray were his dad, the house would be his, but then notes, “You already have a dad.” The conversation turns to a quiet, almost reverent moment as they stare at Hartford’s city lights, which pulse with an indescribable force, making the urban landscape feel divine. Both exhale profanities, and the narrator suddenly realizes that Coca‑Cola and Sprite are produced by the same corporation, a metaphor for the way disparate identities are subsumed by larger homogenizing forces.