by Davon Loeb Kenneth Schipper Somewhere near the Mason-Dixon Line, close to nothing much—a Wawa, Johnny’s Farm, Smith’s General Store, Carranza Memorial, and the high school where I sat in the gymnasium as red as a peregrine’s eggs—between crosshairs, and hot house tongues, and diesel and carousel and steam—and where their heads were ready to blow, like twenty-gauged loaded barrels. But also in that gymnasium, one of the two of us could jump, definitely higher than the other