“From a hat!” Pete cried out, smiling, pedaling rapid-fire, his nerves electric with the prospect of holding a ticket for a legitimate circuit magician.

Making a hard right on Angel, Pete saw the municipal buildings ahead. He knew which was which because Dad forced him to pay attention to such things.

Quit reading that magazine, Dad always told him. You’re never gonna get the layout of downtown if you’re not looking.

And yet, Pete was actually biking the fastest route to the Woodruff. When he hit Concord people hollered at him to watch it, but he slowed down only when he saw two Goblin Police officers slowly trucking uphill on the sidewalk. Their long, rubbery arms swung at their sides, and the dark aviators hid their eyes. Pete didn’t want to mess with the Goblin Police. Dad and Mom talked about them the way some people talked about spiders, or heights, or the dark.

By three fifty-two he was in the nicer part of downtown, closer to those municipal buildings. The courthouse. The waterworks. The morgue. He passed great glass storefronts with huge photos of beautiful women and ebony podiums displaying cologne. More than one store boasted Goblin souvenirs, and each of these had miniature replicas of The Hedges, the maddening tourist attraction at the far eastern border of town.

“The Woodruff!” Pete called out, spotting its roof between closer buildings. He felt the lump of bills in his pocket, Mom’s money, to make sure it was still there.

Another police officer rounded the sidewalk ahead and Pete removed his hand from his pocket. The man turned his head slowly, tracking Pete it seemed, and Pete saw himself in jail, pacing, missing Emperor’s show.

Then he imagined Emperor bending the prison bars with his mind.

Come out, Emperor might say. Don’t miss this.

Pete wasn’t going to miss this. No way.

He reached the lobby of the Woodruff at four oh six. It had taken him thirty-seven minutes to get there. He’d have to head back by four forty-five to be safe and home before five thirty. If it took ten minutes to get the ticket, he’d have twenty-nine minutes to spare downtown. Would he have time to stop by Goblin’s Magic to show it off?

Yes, Pete thought, smiling. He would.

6

Pete left his bike outside. He waited impatiently while a man bought tickets for a singer Pete’s dad liked. When his turn came up and he asked for a ticket, the balding but young man behind the window shook his head. Pete felt all the air escape his body at once. But the man wasn’t saying no.

“I just can’t believe how well this show is selling,” he said.

Pete smiled, and suddenly he no longer saw the other kids at Goblin Middle as encroaching on his territory; rather he saw them as making up a big crowd. A crowd Emperor deserved.

Pete slid the eight dollars across the counter and the broker handed him a purple ticket. Pete held it like it was a baby bird.