no chapter name
After a day of pulling tobacco on the Connecticut farm, the narrator finds Trevor alone in the dim‑lit barn, sipping neon‑yellow Gatorade. Their conversation drifts from the low‑grade crop (“wormholes”) to a raw confession: “I fucking hate my dad.” The narrator echoes the sentiment, marking the first explicit acknowledgment of Trevor’s paternal resentment. Later, on the toolshed roof, they philosophize about the sun, Cleopatra, and the invisibility of self, while sharing grapefruit halves.
The narrative jumps to Trevor’s pickup, where the two roll a joint by stuffing a cigarillo with weed and coke, lighting it, and passing it back and forth until they slump onto the barn floor. Amid the static of a Patriots radio broadcast, Trevor likens their situation to a “fourth‑down” play, using the metaphor to bind themselves to one another. The narrator’s sexual desire surfaces; he kisses Trevor’s chest, licks his ribs, and imagines a bridge built from hatred.
A fragmented memory of a grandmother (Lan) applying a boiled egg to a boy’s bruised cheek follows, tying the narrator’s “Little Dog” nickname to intergenerational care. The chapter then returns to present‑day scenes in Trevor’s yellow‑mobile home: a poster of Neil Young, a 50 Cent mixtape, scattered dime bags, and a cluttered kitchen where a grandmother‑like figure tends an injured child with a boiled egg. Trevor’s father is described as a laborer who builds red‑brick walkways, while his mother lives in Oklahoma, leaving Trevor to a solitary existence with a “white‑boy” identity contrasted against the narrator’s “yellow” heritage.
The narrator recounts multiple sexual encounters—first a “fake” act mimicking porn, then increasingly real intercourse—describing the bodily sensations, the power dynamics, and the narrator’s belief that submission can be a form of agency. Their intimacy is interwoven with drug use: Oxy, weed, and coke become part of their routine, and Trevor’s habit of loading a rifle and shooting paint cans in the backyard is detailed, echoing a story Mr Buford once told about a wounded moose.
Later, during a Thanksgiving bike ride, the boys stop at a gas station, share sandwiches, and speculate on whether they’ll remain friends into old age, all while a distant children’s chorus underscores the fleeting normalcy of their summer. The chapter concludes with a harrowing flashback to the narrator’s own childhood: a violent scene where his mother is injured, his grandmother Lan rushes him to safety, and a chaotic street fight ensues. In the final beats, the narrator, now adult, shouts “Ma” in panic, dropping a radio and rushing back into a house, underscoring his lingering trauma.