“Yeah, I guess it does. Hey, Doug, you got a note too.” I held the three-by-five card out to him.

“Really? That’s cool!” He took it from me and read it.

Dear Doug,

We love having you with us. This is going to be a great year for you. Don’t worry about anything! God’s got you!

Mr. Livingston

Doug breathed in deep and carefully folded the card. He put it in his back pocket. “I’m keepin’ this.” Then he looked up at me. “What’s for breakfast?”

*  *  *

MS 230 is four blocks north and two blocks east from my house. It sits right across from Central Park. Sweet.

“Dude, I miss your flamingo backpack.” Doug jogged along next to me on the way to school. Our bodies didn’t feel like walking on this nerve-filled morning.

“Me too.” I reached up to tighten the straps on my second favorite backpack, the one with multiple colors running through a black background. “But we got a real flamingo now, remember?”

“How can I forget? Arcade, what are we gonna do with that bird? Pretty soon realtors are gonna wanna bring some buyers over to my place, and I can’t have it smelling like shrimp. Or . . . worse.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I can ask the token to take us back to Beijing.” The token shot a hot blast through my chest. I grabbed it. “But not right now!”

“Hey, Arcade! Doug!” The sound of a puttering electric scooter behind us signaled that the most fun kid in all of New York City had arrived.

Thomas Scranton. I call him Scratchy.

“Scratchy! Dude!” I ran up and gave him a high-five. “How was your summer?”

Scratchy wiped sweat from his freckly, fair-skinned neck. “Hot! Man, you wouldn’t believe how many tubes of sunscreen I went through. And I got scorched anyway!” Scratchy scratched his shoulder. “I’m shedding skin like a snake.” Behind Scratchy was another kid I didn’t know riding in an electric wheelchair. “Guys, this is Carlos James C.J. Mendoza. He’s a RADICAL daredevil. Just moved onto my street last week.”

I reached out a fist. “Hey, dude. Nice to meet ya. Do I have to call you all those names?”

“Nah. You can pick. I answer to all of them.”

“Cool! I like options. Today I’ll call you Carlos.”

“Works for me.”

“How’d you score that sweet ride?” Doug asked, pointing to the wheelchair. I cringed a little at his bold question and waited nervously to see how Carlos would respond.

“Thanks for asking. Car accident. A drunk driver plowed through a red light and t-boned our car. We were on our way to celebrate my ninth birthday at the trampoline park that day.”

“Ah, man, I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Thanks. It’s been a rough couple of years, but I’m making it through.”