Zack Rauscher and the Minutemen’s mediman rush up and cover the two downed players with red-crossed blankets. With Frazier and Johnson out, that leaves only Gus D’Armato, Matision and T.K.

T.K. lifts himself to his feet and staggers down Pinckney, figuring to try and intercept Matision somewhere before he reaches the goalyard.

Halfway to joy Street, his head begins to spin. He nearly loses his balance. He remains upright only by grabbing fast to the corner of a nearby building. As best he can, he examines his injured left arm. Blood trickles from out of his cast. There’s a trail of red staining the snow behind him, marking his serpentine progress to this point.

Besides a loss of balance, he has chills. He has to sit down someplace warm and soon.

He breaks open the nearest glass door. It leads into a sporting goods store. He goes inside.

Clutching to counters for support, he passes racks of handguns and rifles—ironically a good many of the rifles bear Harv Matision’s endorsement—display cases of fishing gear, shelves of ammunition, heading to the rear of the store. Once there, he finds the rest room.

He gives his referee the signal, one fist upraised, goes inside and closes the door behind him. His referee and cameraman remain outside. He’ll have ten minutes alone before drawing a penalty.

He pulls open one of the plastic doors enclosing a toilet, stumbles inside and sits down. He pushes the flush button repeatedly. Again and again, the toilet heats up to incineration levels. Its warmth drifts upward and engulfs him in its pleasant embrace. He keeps it up until the toilet becomes too hot to sit on. He moves into the next stall and starts the process all over.

Suddenly, the rest room door opens. Beneath the toilet’s partition, T.K. sees a pair of blue clad legs, either Zack Rauscher or Gus D’Armato, the only other Prospectors left.

“T.K., you in here?” It’s Gus.

“Yeah, Gus. Right here.” T.K. swings the door open so Gus can see him.

“How you feeling?” Gus asks tersely, his rifle cradled loosely under his shoulder.

“Fine. Give me a couple more minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Wait for you outside.” D’Armato turns to leave.

T.K. dives off the toilet seat and hits D’Amato in the back of the knees. D’Armato falls to the hard ceramic floor with a loud clatter. Before he can recover, T.K. relieves him of his rifle. Holding it one-handed, he pokes the barrel up under D’Amato’s helmet.

“What the hell you doing?” D’Amato’s eyes bulge beneath his faceplate.

“Improving my odds, Gus.”

“What?”

“How did you know I was in here?”

“Saw you come.”