Tilting my head back thoughtfully I said, “Marcy Delgatto.”

Chris looked around, “What was that, doofus?”

I gave him a hammed up shrug and said innocently, “You said I do whatever I wanted to do, and…”

“You little, perv.” He gave me a punch to the arm, but the lack of a significant sting told me he approved. Who wouldn’t; Marcy’s really hot. Sure, I’d have a snowball’s chance in Hell, but a guy can dream, can’t he?

And that’s where it started, the dreaming. I slouched back to my room, defiant in my somnolence. But I couldn’t sleep. It just wouldn’t happen. Thinking happened instead. Chris always said it would either be my biggest downfall or my salvation, all my thinking.

What if I could do whatever I wanted? What if I wasn’t a no-count schmo from the wrong side of town? What if life didn’t have to end in a hail of gunfire, or worse being someone’s special little buddy in a jail cell?

Yeah, crazy, huh? Me thinking. Me dreaming. Me having hope. Hope don’t live where I live.