The air in the kitchen is suddenly thick as the boys glare at each other.

“Trash talk is half the fun, right?” Wyatt says tentatively.

It’s like a balloon pops, and all the air rushes back into the room as suddenly the boys are both grinning ear to ear.

“Anyway,” says Wyatt, “I’m not sure we could make Lake Erie any grosser with a little coal dump.”

“Fair point,” says Trey. “And a polluted lake is better than a wrecked planet.”

I ask, “Wyatt, do you think you could find your way to that barge again?”

“I can find my way anywhere. But . . .”

“But you still prefer Plan B,” I say.

He shrugs. “That tower is only one Death Star.”

“And there’s always another Death Star,” Trey says.

“Taking it down means the Rebellion lives to fight another day,” I point out, glad that I finally understand one of Trey’s pop culture references.

Wyatt says, “If we did this, we could reach the barge in less than thirty minutes by taking the bridge across Sandusky Bay. That’s risky, because if a dragonfly came after us, there’d be nowhere to go except into the water. By boat, it would take at least a couple of hours.”

“We’ll need to find lighter fluid,” Trey says. “Shouldn’t be too hard. This is a summer grilling town.”

“Maybe Manny knows where we can get some,” I say.

“Or the best way to get to Port Clinton while avoiding dragonflies,” Trey says.

“Let’s go talk to him.”

Trey and Wyatt move to follow me out of the kitchen, but Tanq plunks down at the industrial steel table. “I’m going to hang here with Emmaline,” she says, avoiding our gazes.

Emmaline slaps her bottom down at Tanq’s feet—over and over, eyes wide with the hope that demonstrating her “sit” will earn herself more strawberry yogurt. I hope yogurt isn’t bad for dogs.

“Sure, Tanq,” I tell her. “We’ll let you know what Manny says.”

Manny sits beside a computer terminal, poring over a giant binder filled with pages and pages of pictures, handwriting, charts—all in plastic sleeves. He closes it when he hears us and swivels around in his chair, but he leaves the binder out in the open. On the cover it says, in bold, colorful, handwritten caps, THE BOOK OF MANNY.

“We might have a plan,” Wyatt tells him.

“Part of a plan,” I add.

“Tell me!” says Manny.

So we do. His eyes narrow, and he fidgets with one end of his mustache. “Interesting. Half-formed, yes, but I think this plan has potential.”

“You do?” I say.

“There’s an outdoor cooking supply store close by,” he says. “Barb’s Barbeque. Most folks these days are using gas grills, but you can still find all the lighter fluid you want. Enough to light up a whole barge.”